IN     MEMORIAM. 


B  OS  TON: 

T  I  C  K  N  O  R     AND    FIELDS. 
1861. 


t 


University  Press,  Cambridge  : 
Printed   by  Welch,   Bigelow,  and   Company. 


MEMOIR 


OF 


ARTHUR     HENRY     HALLAM. 


MEMOIR. 


yt  RTHUR  HENRY  HALLAM,  the  friend  of 
Alfred  Tennyson,  and  the  subject  of 
"In  Memoriam,"  was'  born : -iir Bedford s Place,' 
London,  on  the  ist  of  February,  1811.  The 
eldest  son  of  Henry  Hallam,  the  eminent 
historian  and  critic,  his  earliest  years  had 
every  advantage  which  culture  and  moral  ex 
cellence  could  bring  to  his  education.  His 
father  has  feelingly  commemorated  his  boy 
ish  virtues  and  talents  by  recording  his  "  pe 
culiar  clearness  of  perception,  his  facility  of 
acquiring  knowledge,  and,  above  all,  an  un- 
deviating  sweetness  of  disposition,  and  ad- 


967675 


VI 

herence  to  his  sense  of  what  was  right  and 
becoming."  From  that  tearful  record,  not 
publicly  circulated,  our  recital  is  partly  gath 
ered.  Companions  of  his  childhood  have 
often  told  us  well-remembered  incidents  of 
his  life,  and  this  is  the  too  brief  story  of 
his  earthly  career. 

.  When  about  eight  years  of  age,  Arthur  re 
sided  some  time  in  Germany  and  Switzerland, 
with  his  father  and  mother.  He  had  already 
become  familiar  with  the  French  language, 
and  a  year  later  he  read  Latin  with  some 
facility.  Although  the  father  judiciously  stud 
ied  to  repress  his  son's  marked  precocity  of 
talent,  Arthur  wrote  about  this  time  several 
plays  in  prose  and  in  rhyme, — compositions 
which  were  never  exhibited,  however,  beyond 
the  family  circle. 

At  ten  years   of  age   he  became  a  pupil  at 


Vll 

a  school  in  Putney,  under  the  tuition  of  an 
excellent  clergyman,  where  he  continued  two 
years.  He  then  took  a  short  tour  on  the 
Continent,  and,  returning,  went  to  Eton, 
where  he  studied  nearly  five  years.  While  at 
Eton,  he  was  reckoned,  according  to  the  usual 
test  at  that  place,  not  a  first-rate  Latin  stu 
dent,  for  his  mind  had  a  predominant  bias 
toward  English  literature,  and  there  he  lin 
gered  among  the  exhaustless  fountains  of  the 
earlier  poetry  of  his  native  tongue.  One  who 
knew  him  well  in  those  years  has  described 
him  to  us  as  a  sweet-voiced  lad,  moving  about 
the  pleasant  playing-fields  of  Eton  with  a 
thoughtful  eye  and  .a  most  kindly  expression. 
Afterwards,  as  Tennyson,  singing  to  the 
witch-elms  and  the  towering  sycamore,  paints 
him,  he  mixed  in  all  the  simple  sports,  and 
loved  to  gather  a  happy  group  about  him,  as 


Vlll 


he  lay  on  the  grass  and  discussed  grave  ques 
tions  of  state. 

His  taste  for  philosophical  poetry  increased 
with  his  years,  and  Wordsworth  and  Shelley 
became  his  prime  favorites.  His  contribu 
tions  to  the  (C  Eton  Miscellany"  were  various, 
sometimes  in  prose,  and  now  and  then  in 
verse.  A  poet  by  nature,  he  could  not  resist 
the  Muse's  influence,  and  he  expressed  a  gen 
uine  emotion,  oftentimes  elegantly,  and  never 
without  a  meaning. 

In  the  summer  of  1827  he  left  Eton,  and 
travelled  with  his  parents  eight  months  in 
Italy.  And  now  began  that  life  of  thought 
and  feeling  so  conspicuous  to  the  end  of  his 
too  brief  career.  Among  the  Alps  his  whole 
soul  took  the  impress  of  those  early  introduc 
tions  to  what  is  most  glorious  and  beautiful 
in  Nature.  After  passing  the  mountains, 


IX 

Italian  literature  claimed  his  attention,  and 
he  entered  upon  its  study  with  all  the  ardor 
of  a  young  and  earnest  student.  An  Abbate 
who  recognized  his  genius  encouraged  him 
with  his  assistance  in  the  difficult  art  of  Ital 
ian  versification,  and,  after  a  very  brief  stay 
in  Italy,  at  the  age  of  seventeen,  he  wrote 
several  sonnets  which  attracted  considerable 
attention  among  scholars.  Very  soon  after 
acquiring  the  Italian  language,  the  great  Flor 
entine  poet  opened  to  him  his  mystic  visions. 
Dante  became  his  worship,  and  his  own  spirit 
responded  to  that  of  the  author  of  the  <c  Di- 
vina  Commedia." 

His  growing  taste  led  him  to  admire  deeply 
all  that  is  noble  in  Art,  and  he  soon  prized 
with  enthusiasm  the  great  pictures  of  the 
Venetian,  the  Tuscan,  and  the  Roman  schools. 
"His  eyes,"  says  his  father,  "were  fixed  on 


the  best  pictures  with  silent,  intense  delight." 
One  can  imagine  him  at  this  period  wandering 
with  all  the  ardor  of  youthful  passion  through 
the  great  galleries,  not  with  the  stolid  stony 
gaze  of  a  cold-blooded  critic,  but  with  that  un 
mixed  enthusiasm  which  so  well  becomes  the 
unwearied  traveller  before  the  unveiled  glories 
of  genius  now  first  revealed  to  his  astonished 
vision. 

He  returned  home  in  1828,  and  went  to 
reside  at  Cambridge,  having  been  entered, 
before  his  departure  for  the  Continent,  at 
Trinity  College.  It  is  said  that  he  cared  little 
for  academical  reputation,  and  in  the  severe 
scrutiny  of  examination  he  did  not  appear  as  a 
competitor  for  accurate  mathematical  demon 
strations.  He  knew  better  than  those  about 
him  where  his  treasures  lay,  —  and  to  some 
he  may  have  seemed  a  dreamer,  to  others  an 


XI 


indifferent  student,  perhaps.  His  aims  were 
higher  than  the  tutor's  black-board,  and  his 
life-thoughts  ran  counter  to  the  usual  college 
routine.  Disordered  health  soon  began  to  ap 
pear,  and  a  too  rapid  determination  of  blood 
to  the  brain  often  deprived  him  of  the  power 
of  much  mental  labor.  At  Florence  he  had 
been  seized  with  a  slight  attack  of  the  same 
nature,  and  there  was  always  a  tendency  to 
derangement  of  the  vital  functions.  Irregu 
larity  of  circulation  occasioned  sometimes  a 
morbid  depression  of  spirits,  and  his  friends 
anxiously  watched  for  symptoms  of  returning 
health.  In  his  third  Cambridge  year  he  grew 
better,  and  all  who  knew  and  loved  him  re 
joiced  in  his  apparent  recovery. 

About  this  time,  some  of  his  poetical  pieces 
were  printed,  but  withheld  from  publication. 
It  was  the  original  intention  for  the  two 


Xll 


friends,  Alfred  Tennyson  and  Arthur  Hallam, 
to  publish  together ;  but  the  idea  was  aban 
doned.  Such  lines  as  these  the  young  poet 
addressed  to  the  man  who  was  afterwards  to 
lend  interest  and  immortality  to  the  story  of 
his  early  loss  :  — 

"  Alfred,  I  would  that  you  beheld  me  now, 
Sitting  beneath  a  mossy,  ivied  wall 
On  a  quaint  bench,  which  to  that  structure  old 
Winds  an  accordant  curve.     Above  my  head 
Dilates  immeasurable  a  wild  of  leaves, 
Seeming  received  into  the   blue   expanse 
That  vaults  this  summer  noon.      Before  me  lies 
A  lawn  of  English  verdure,  smooth  and  bright, 
Mottled  with  fainter  hues  of  early  hay, 
Whose  fragrance,   blended  with  the  rose-perfume 
From  that  white-flowering  bush,  invites  my  sense 
To  a  delicious  madness, — and  faint  thoughts 
Of  childish  years  are  borne  into  my  brain 
By  unforgotten  ardors  waking  now. 


Xlll 

Beyond,  a  gentle  slope   leads   into  shade 

Of  mighty  trees,  to  bend  whose  eminent  crown 

Is  the  prime  labour  of  the  pettish  winds, 

That  now  in  lighter  mood  are  twirling  leaves 

Over  my  feet,   or  hurrying  butterflies, 

And  the  gay  humming  things  that  summer  loves, 

Through  the  warm  air,  or  altering  the  bound 

Where  yon  elm-shadows  in  majestic  line 

Divide  dominion  with  the  abundant  light." 

And  this  fine  descriptive  passage  was  also 
written  at  this  period  of  his  life :  - 

"  The  garden  trees  are  busy  with  the  shower 

That  fell  ere  sunset :  now  methinks   they  talk, 

Lowly  and  sweetly,  as  befits  the  hour, 
One  to  another  down  the  grassy  walk. 

Hark  !    the  laburnum  from  his  opening  flower 
This  cheery  creeper  greets  in  whisper  light, 
While  the  grim  fir,  rejoicing  in  the  night, 

Hoarse  mutters  to  the  murmuring  sycamore. 

What  shall  I  deem  their  converse  ?  Would  they  hail 


XIV 


The  wild  gray  light  that  fronts  yon  massive  cloud, 
Or  the  half-bow  rising  like  pillared  fire  ? 
Or  are  they  sighing  faintly  for  desire 

That  with  May  dawn  their  leaves  may  be  o'erflowed, 
And  dews  about  their  feet  may  never  fail  ? " 

The  first  college  prize  for  English  declama 
tion  was  awarded  to  him  this  year ;  and  his 
exercise,  <c  The  Conduct  of  the  Independent 
Party  during  the  Civil  War,"  greatly  im 
proved  his  standing  at  the  University.  Other 
honors  quickly  followed  his  successful  essay, 
and  he  was  chosen  to  deliver  an  oration  in  the 
College  Chapel  just  before  the  Christmas  va 
cation.  This  was  in  the  year  1831.  He 
selected  as  his  subject  the  one  eminently  con 
genial  to  his  thought ;  and  his  theme,  <c  The 
Influence  of  Italian  upon  English  Literature," 
was  admirably  treated.  The  oration  is  before 
us  as  we  write,  and  we  turn  the  pages  with  a 


XV 


fond  and  loving  eye.  We  remember,  as  we 
read,  his  brief  sojourn,  —  that  he  died  "  in  the 
sweet  hour  of  prime,"  — and  we  are  astonished 
at  the  eloquent  wisdom  displayed  by  a  lad  of 
twenty  summers.  cc  I  cannot  help  consid 
ering,"  he  says,  "  the  sonnets  of  Shakespeare 
as  a  sort  of  homage  to  the  Genius  of  Christian 
Europe,  necessarily  exacted,  although  volun 
tarily  paid,  before  he  was  allowed  to  take  in 
hand  the  sceptre  of  his  endless  dominion." 
And  he  ends  his  charming  disquisition  in  these 
words:  ccAn  English  mind  that  has  drunk 
deep  at  the  sources  of  Southern  inspiration, 
and  especially  that  is  imbued  with  the  spirit 
of  the  mighty  Florentine,  will  be  conscious 
of  a  perpetual  freshness  and  quiet  beauty  rest 
ing  on  his  imagination  and  spreading  gently 
over  his  affections,  until,  by  the  blessing  of 
Heaven,  it  may  be  absorbed  without  loss  in 
b 


XVI 


the  pure  inner  light  of  which  that  voice  has 
spoken,  as  no  other  can,  - 

1  Light  intellectual,  yet  full  of  love, 
Love  of  true  beauty,  therefore  full  of  joy, 
Joy,  every  other  sweetness   far  above.'  ' 

It  was  young  Hallam's  privilege  to  be 
among  Coleridge's  favorites,  and  in  one  of 
his  poems  Arthur  alludes  to  him  as  a  man 
in  whose  face  "  every  line  wore  the  pale  cast  of 
thought."  His  conversations  with  <c  the  old 
man  eloquent  "  gave  him  intense  delight,  and 
he  often  alluded  to  the  wonderful  talks  he  had 
enjoyed  with  the  great  dreamer,  whose  magical 
richness  of  illustration  took  him  captive  for 
the  time  being. 

At  Abbotsford  he  became  known  to  Sir 
Walter  Scott,  and  Lockhart  thus  chronicles  his 
visit :  — 


XV11 

cc  Among  a  few  other  friends  from  a  dis 
tance,  Sir  Walter  received  this  summer  [1829] 
a  short  visit  from  Mr.  Hallam,  and  made  in 
his  company  several  of  the  little  excursions 
which  had  in  former  days  been  of  constant 
recurrence.  Mr.  Hallam  had  with  him  his 
son,  Arthur,  a  young  gentleman  of  extraor 
dinary  abilities,  and  as  modest  as  able,  who 
not  long  afterwards  was  cut  off  in  the  very 
bloom  of  opening  life  and  genius.  His  beau 
tiful  verses,  £  On  Melrose  seen  in  Company 
with  Scott,'  have  since  been  often  printed." 

"  I  lived  an  hour  in  fair  Melrose  : 

It  was  not  when  *  the  pale  moonlight : 
Its  magnifying  charm  bestows  ; 

Yet  deem  I  that  I   '  viewed  it  right.' 
The  wind-swept  shadows  fast  careered 
Like  living  things  that  joyed  or  feared, 
Adown  the  sunny  Eildon  Hill, 
And  the  sweet  winding  Tweed  the  distance  crowned  well. 


XV111 

"  I  inly  laughed  to  see  that   scene 

Wear  such  a  countenance  of  youth, 
Though  many  an  age  those  hills  were  green, 

And  yonder  river  glided  smooth, 
Ere  in  these  now  disjointed  walls 
The  Mother  Church  held  festivals, 
And  full-voiced  anthemings  the  while 
Swelled  from  the  choir,  and  lingered  down  the  echoing  aisle. 

"  I  coveted  that  Abbey's  doom  : 

For  if,  I  thought,   the  early  flowers 
Of  our  affection  may  not  bloom, 

Like  those  green  hills,  through  countless  hours, 
Grant  me  at  least  a  tardy  waning, 
Some  pleasure  still  in  age's  paining ; 
Though  lines  and  forms  must  fade  away, 
Still  may  old  Beauty  share  the  empire  of  Decay  ! 

"  But  looking  toward  the  grassy  mound 

Where  calm  the  Douglas  chieftains  lie, 
Who,  living,   quiet  never  found, 
I  straightway  learnt  a  lesson  high  : 


XIX 


For  there  an  old  man  sat  serene, 
And  well  I  knew  that  thoughtful  mien 
Of  him  whose  early  lyre  had  thrown 
Over  these  mouldering  walls  the  magic  of  its  tone. 

"  Then  ceased  I  from  my  envying  state, 

And  knew  that  aweless  intellect 
Hath  power  upon  the  ways  of  Fate, 

And  works  through   time  and   space  uncheck'd. 
That  minstrel  of  old  Chivalry 
In  the  cold  grave   must  come  to  be  ; 
But  his  transmitted  thoughts  have  part 
In  the  collective  mind,  and  never  shall  depart. 

"  It  was  a  comfort,  too,  to   see 

Those  dogs  that  from  him  ne'er  would  rove, 
And  always  eyed  him  reverently, 

With  glances  of  depending   love. 
They  know  not  of  that  eminence 
Which  marks  him  to  my  reasoning  sense  ; 
They  know  but  that  he  is  a  man, 
And  still  to  them  is  kind,  and  glads  them  all  he  can. 


XX 


"  And  hence  their  quiet  looks  confiding, 
Hence  grateful  instincts  seated  deep, 
By  whose  strong  bond,  were  ill  betiding, 

They  'd  risk  their  own  his  life  to  keep. 
What  joy  to  watch  in  lower  creature 
Such  dawning  of  a  moral  nature, 
And  how   (the  rule  all  things  obey) 
They  look  to  a  higher  mind  to  be  their  law  and  stay  !  " 

At  the  University  he  lived  a  sweet  and  gra 
cious  life.  No  man  had  truer  or  fonder 
friends,  or  was  more  admired  for  his  excellent 
accomplishments.  Earnest  in  whatever  he 
attempted,  his  enthusiasm  for  all  that  was  high 
and  holy  in  literature  stamped  his  career  at 
Trinity  as  one  of  remarkable  superiority.  cc  I 
have  known  many  young  men,  both  at  Oxford 
and  elsewhere,  of  whose  abilities  I  think 
highly,  but  I  never  met  with  one  whom  I  con 
sidered  worthy  of  being  put  into  competition 


XXI 


with  Arthur  for  a  moment,"  writes  his  early 
and  intimate  friend.  <c  I  can  scarcely  hope  to 
describe  the  feelings  with  which  I  regarded 
him,  much  less  the  daily  beauty  of  his  ex 
istence,  out  of  which  they  grew,"  writes 
another  of  his  companions.  Politics,  litera 
ture,  philosophy,  he  discussed  with  a  meta 
physical  subtilty  marvellous  in  one  so  young. 
The  highest  comprehension  seemed  native  to 
his  mind,  so  that  all  who  came  within  the 
sphere  of  his  influence  were  alike  impressed 
with  his  vast  and  various  powers.  The  life 
and  grace  of  a  charmed  circle,  the  display  of 
his  gifts  was  not  for  show,  and  he  never  forgot 
to  keep  the  solemn  injunction,  "My  son,  give 
me  thine  heart"  clearly  engraven  before  him. 

Among  his  favorite  authors,  while  at  the 
University,  we  have  been  told  he  greatly 
delighted  in  the  old  dramatists,  Webster, 


XX11 

Heywood,  and  Fletcher.  The  grace  and  har 
mony  of  style  and  versification  which  he 
found  particularly  in  the  latter  master  became 
one  of  his  favorite  themes,  and  he  often  dwelt 
upon  this  excellence.  He  loved  to  repeat  the 
sad  old  strains  of  Bion  ;  and  ^Eschylus  and 
Sophocles  interested  him  deeply. 

On  leaving  Cambridge,  he  took  his  degree 
and  went  immediately  to  London  to  reside 
with  his  father.  It  was  a  beautiful  relation 
which  always  existed  between  the  elder  and 
the  younger  scholar ;  and  now,  as  soon  as 
Arthur  had  been  entered  on  the  boards  of  the 
Inner  Temple,  the  father  and  son  sat  down  to 
read  law  together.  Legal  studies  occupied 
the  young  student  till  the  month  of  October, 
1832,  when  he  became  an  inmate  of  the  office 
of  an  eminent  conveyancer  in  Lincoln's  Inn 
Fields.  Although  he  applied  himself  dili- 


XX111 

gently  to  obtain  a  sound  practical  knowledge 
of  the  profession  he  had  chosen,  his  former 
habits  of  literary  pursuit  did  not  entirely 
desert  him.  During  the  winter  he  translated 
most  of  the  sonnets  in  the  "Vita  Nuova," 
and  composed  a  dramatic  sketch  with  Raf- 
faello  for  the  hero.  About  this  period  he 
wrote  brief,  but  excellent,  memoirs  of  Pe 
trarch,  Voltaire,  and  Burke,  for  the  cf  Gallery 
of  Portraits,"  then  publishing  by  the  Society 
for  the  Diffusion  of  Useful  Knowledge.  But 
his  time,  when  unoccupied  at  the  office,  was 
principally  devoted  to  metaphysical  research 
and  the  history  of  philosophical  opinion. 
His  spirits,  sometimes  apt  to  be  graver  than 
is  the  wont  of.  youth,  now  became  more  ani 
mated  and  even  gay,  so  that  his  family  were 
cheered  on  to  hope  that  his  health  was  firmly 
gaining  ground.  The  unpleasant  symptoms 


XXIV 


which  manifested  themselves  in  his  earlier 
years  had  almost  entirely  disappeared,  when 
an  attack  of  intermittent  fever  in  the  spring 
of  1833  gave  the  fatal  blow  to  his  constitution. 
In  August,  the  careful,  tender  father  took  his 
beloved  son  into  Germany,  trusting  to  a 
change  of  climate  for  restoration.  Travelling 
slowly,  they  lingered  among  the  scenes  con 
nected  with  a  literature  and  a  history  both 
were  so  familiar  with,  and  many  pleasant  and 
profitable  hours  of  delightful  converse  glad 
dened  Arthur's  journey.  It  is  difficult  to  pic 
ture  a  more  interesting  group  of  travellers 
through  the  picturesque  regions  they  were 
again  exploring. 

No  child  was  ever  more  ardently  loved  - 
nay,  worshipped  —  by  his  father,   than  Arthur 
Hallam.       The    parallel,     perhaps,     exists    in 
Edmund    Burke' s    fond    attachment    for    and 


XXV 


subsequent  calamity  in  the  loss  of  his  son 
Richard.  That  passage  in  the  life  of  the  great 
statesman  is  one  of  the  most  affecting  in  all 
biographical  literature.  cc  The  son  th,us  deep 
ly  lamented,"  says  Prior,  "had  always  con 
ducted  himself  with  much  filial  duty  and  affec 
tion.  Their  confidence  on  all  subjects  was 
even  more  unreserved  than  commonly  prevails 
between  father  and  son,  and  their  esteem  for 

each  other  higher The  son  looked 

to  the  father  as  one  of  the  first,  if  not  the  very 
first,  character  in  history ;  the  father  had 
formed  the  very  highest  opinion  of  the  talents 
of  the  son,  and  among  his  friends  rated  them 
superior  to  his  own."  The  same  confiding 
companionship  grew  up  between  Henry  Hal- 
lam  and  his  eldest  boy,  and  continued  till 
cc  death  set  the  seal  of  eternity "  upon  the 
young  and  gifted  Arthur. 


XXVI 

The  travellers  were  returning  to  Vienna 
from  Pesth ;  a  damp  day  set  in  while  they 
were  on  the  journey;  again  intermittent  fever 
attacked  the  sensitive  invalid,  and  suddenly, 
mysteriously,  his  life  was  ended.  It  was  the 
1 5th  of  September,  1833,  and  Arthur  Hallam 
lay  dead  in  his  father's  arms.  Twenty-two  brief 
years,  and  all  high  hopes  for  him,  the  manly,  the 
noble-spirited,  this  side  the  tomb,  are  broken 
down  forever.  Well  might  his  heart-crushed 
father  sob  aloud,  £C  He  seemed  to  tread  the 
earth  as  a  spirit  from  some  better  world." 
The  author  of  "  Horae  Subsecivae  "  aptly 
quotes  Shakespeare's  memorable  words,  in 
connection  with  the  tragic  bereavement  of  that 
autumnal  day  in  Vienna  :  — 

"  The  idea  of  thy  life  shall  sweetly  creep 
Into  my  study  of  imagination ; 
And  every  lovely  organ  of  thy  life 


XXV11 

Shall  come  apparelled  in  more  precious  habit, 
More  moving  delicate,  and  full  of  life, 
Into  the  eye  and  prospect  of  my  soul, 
Than  when  thou  liv'dst  indeed." 

Standing  by  the  grave  of  this  young  person, 
now  made  so  renowned  by  the  genius  of  a 
great  poet,  whose  song  has  embalmed  his 
name  and  called  the  world's  attention  to  his 
death,  the  inevitable  reflection  is  not  of  sor 
row.  He  sleeps  well  who  is  thus  lamented, 
and  <c  nothing  can  touch  him  further." 


IN     MEMORIAM. 


OTRONG  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love, 

Whom  we,  that  have  not  seen  thy  face, 
By  faith,  and  faith  alone,  embrace, 

Believing  where  we  cannot  prove ; 

7 

Thine  are  these  orbs  of  light  and  shade  ; 

Thou  madest  life  in  man  and  brute  ; 

Thou  madest  Death ;  and  lo,  thy  foot 
Is  on  the  skull  which  thou  hast  made. 


Thou  wilt  not  leave  us  in  the  dust  : 

Thou  madest  man,  he  knows  not  why ; 
He  thinks  he  was  not  made  to  die  ; 

And  thou  hast  made  him  :   thou  art  just. 

Thou  seemest  human  and  divine, 

The  highest,  holiest  manhood,  thou  : 
Our  wills  are  ours,  we  know  not  how ; 

Our  wills  are  ours,  to  make  them  thine. 

Our  little  systems  have  their  day  ; 

They  have  their  day  and  cease  to  be  : 
They  are  but  broken  lights  of  thee, 

And  thou,  O  Lord,  art  more  than  they. 


We  have  but  faith  :   we  cannot  know  ; 

For  knowledge  is  of  things  we  see ; 

And  yet  we  trust  it  comes  from  thee, 
A  beam  in  darkness:   let  it  grow. 

Let  knowledge  grow  from  more  to  more, 
But  more  of  reverence  in  us  dwell ; 
That  mind  and  soul,  according  well, 

May  make  one  music  as  before, 

But  vaster.     We  are  fools  and  slight ; 

We  mock  thee  when  we  do  not  fear  : 
But  help  thy  foolish  ones  to  bear ; 

Help  thy  vain  worlds  to  bear  thy  light. 


Forgive  what  seem'd  my  sin  in  me ; 

What  seem'd  my  worth  since  I  began  ; 

For  merit  lives  from  man  to  man, 
And  not  from  man,  O  Lord,  to  thee. 

Forgive  my  grief  for  one  removed, 

Thy  creature,  whom  I  found  so  fair. 
I  trust  he  lives  in  thee,  and  there 

I  find  him  worthier  to  be  loved. 

Forgive  these  wild  and  wandering  cries, 
Confusions  of  a  wasted  youth  ; 
Forgive  them  where  they  fail  in  truth, 

And  in  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 

1849. 


IN     MEMORIAM 

A.  H.  H. 

OBIIT     MDCCCXXXII1. 


I. 


HELD  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings 
To  one  clear  harp  in  divers  tones, 
That  men  may  rise  on  stepping-stones 
Of  their  dead  selves  to  higher  things. 

But  who  shall  so  forecast  the  years, 

And  find  in  loss  a  gain  to  match  ? 
Or  reach  a  hand  thro'  time  to  catch 

The  far-off  interest  of  tears  ? 


Let  Love  clasp  Grief  lest  both  be  drown'd, 
Let  darkness  keep  her  raven  gloss : 
Ah,  sweeter  to  be  drunk  with  loss, 

To  dance  with  death,  to  beat  the  ground, 

Than  that  the  victor  Hours  should  scorn 
The  long  result  of  love,  and  boast, 
"  Behold  the  man  that  loved  and  lost 

But  all  he  was  is  overworn." 


II. 


/^\LD  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones 
That  name  the  under-lying  dead, 
Thy  fibres  net  the  dreamless  head, 

Thy  roots  are  wrapt  about  the  bones. 

The  seasons  bring  the  flower  again, 

And  bring  the  firstling  to  the  flock ; 
And  in  the  dusk  of  thee,  the  clock 

Beats  out  the  little  lives  of  men. 


IO 


O  not  for  thee  the  glow,  the  bloom, 
Who  changest  not  in  any  gale, 
Nor  branding  summer  suns  avail 

To  touch  thy  thousand  years  of  gloom 

And  gazing  on  thee,  sullen  tree, 

Sick  for  thy  stubborn  hardihood, 
I  seem  to  fail  from  out  my  blood 

And  grow  incorporate  into  thee. 


1 1 


III. 


/^\   SORROW,  cruel  fellowship, 

O  Priestess  in  the  vaults  of  Death, 
O  sweet  and  bitter  in  a  breath, 

What  whispers  from  thy  lying  lip  ? 

"  The  stars,"  she  whispers,  "  blindly  run  ; 

A  web  is  wov'n  across  the  sky  ; 

From  out  waste  places  comes  a  cry, 
And  murmurs  from  the  dying  sun  : 


12 


"And  all  the  phantom,  Nature,  stands,  - 
With  all  the  music  in  her  tone, 
A  hollow  echo  of  my  own,- 

A  hollow  form  with  empty  hands." 

And  shall  I  take  a  thing  so  blind, 

Embrace  her  as  my  natural  good  ; 
Or  crush  her,  like  a  vice  of  blood, 

Upon  the  threshold  of  the  mind  ? 


IV. 


'TV)  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away  ; 

My  will  is  bondsman  to  the  dark  ; 

I  sit  within  a  helmless  bark, 
And  with  my  heart  I  muse  and  say  : 

O  heart,  how  fares  it  with  thee  now, 

That  thou  shouldst  fail  from  thy  desire, 
Who  scarcely  darest  to  inquire, 

"  What  is  it  makes  me  beat  so  low  ?  " 


Something  it  is  which  thou  hast  lost, 

Some  pleasure  from  thine  early  years. 
Break,  thou  deep  vase  of  chilling  tears, 

That  grief  hath  shaken  into  frost  ! 

Such  clouds  of  nameless  trouble  cross 
All  night  below  the  darken'd  eyes  ; 
With  morning  wakes  the  will,  and  cries, 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  the  fool  of  loss." 


v. 


T   SOMETIMES  hold  it  half  a  sin 

To  put  in  words  the  grief  I  feel ; 
For  words,  like  Nature,  half  reveal 

And  half  conceal  the  Soul  within. 


But,  for  the  unquiet  heart  and  brain, 
A  use  in  measured  language  lies  ; 
The  sad  mechanic  exercise, 

Like  dull  narcotics,  numbing  pain. 


i6 


In  words,  like  weeds,  I  '11  wrap  me  o'er, 
Like  coarsest  clothes  against  the  cold  ; 
But  that  large  grief  which  these  enfold 

Is  given  in  outline  and  no  more. 


17 


VI. 


/^\NE  writes,  that  "Other  friends  remain," 
That  "  Loss  is  common  to  the  race," 
And  common  is  the  commonplace, 

And  vacant  chaff  well  meant  for  grain. 

That  loss  is  common  would  not  make 
My  own  less  bitter,  rather  more  : 
Too  common  !  Never  morning  wore 

To  evening,  but  some  heart  did  break. 


i8 


O  father,  wheresoever  thou  be, 

Who  pledgest  now  thy  gallant  son  ; 
A  shot,  ere  half  thy  draught  he  done, 

Hath  still'd  the  life  that  beat  from  thee. 

O  mother,  praying  God  will  save 

Thy  sailor, -- while  thy  head  is  bow'd, 
His  heavy-shotted  hammock-shroud 

Drops  in  his  vast  and  wandering  grave. 

Ye  know  no  more  than  I  who  wrought 
At  that  last  hour  to  please  him  well  ; 
Who  mused  on  all  I  had  to  tell, 

And  something  written,  something  thought ; 


Expecting  still  his  advent  home  ; 
And  ever  met  him  on  his  way 
With  wishes,  thinking,  here  to-day, 

Or  here  to-morrow  will  he  come. 

O  somewhere,  meek  unconscious  dove, 
That  sittest  ranging  golden  hair ; 
And  glad  to  find  thyself  so  fair, 

Poor  child,  that  waitest  for  thy  love  ! 

For  now  her  father's  chimney  glows 

In  expectation  of  a  guest ; 

And  thinking  "This  will  please  him  best," 
She  takes  a  riband  or  a  rose  ; 


20 


For  he  will  see  them  on  to-night ; 

And  with  the  thought  her  colour  burns  ; 

And,  having  left  the  glass,  she  turns 
Once  more  to  set  a  ringlet  right  ; 

And,  even  when  she  turn'd,  the  curse 
Had  fallen,  and  her  future  lord 
Was  drown'd  in  passing  thro'  the  ford, 

Or  kill'd  in  falling  from  his  horse. 

O  what  to  her  shall  be  the  end  ? 

And  what  to  me  remains  of  good  ? 

To  her,  perpetual  maidenhood, 
And  unto  me  no  second  friend. 


21 


VII. 


~"\ARK  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand 
Here  in  the  long  unlovely  street, 
Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  waiting  for  a  hand, 

A  hand  that  can  be  clasp'd  no  more,  - 
Behold  me,  for  I  cannot  sleep, 
And  like  a  guilty  thing  I  creep 

At  earliest  morning  to  the  door. 


22 


He  is  not  here  ;  but  far  away 

The  noise  of  life  begins  again, 
And  ghastly  thro'  the  drizzling  rain 

On  the  bald  street  breaks  the  blank  day. 


23 


VIII. 


A  HAPPY  lover  who  has  come 

To  look  on  her  that  loves  him  well, 
Who  'lights  and  rings  the  gateway  bell, 
And  learns  her  gone  and  far  from  home  ; 

He  saddens,  all  the  magic  light 

Dies  off  at  once  from  bower  and  hall, 
And  all  the  place  is  dark,  and  all 

The  chambers  emptied  of  delight  : 


So  find  I  every  pleasant  spot 

In  which  we  two  were  wont  to  meet, 
The  field,  the  chamber,  and  the  street, 

For  all  is  dark  where  thou  art  not. 

Yet  as  that  other,  wandering  there 

In  those  deserted  walks,  may  find 
A  flower  beat  with  rain  and  wind, 

Which  once  she  foster'd  up  with  care  ; 

So  seems  it  in  my  deep  regret, 

O  my  forsaken  heart,  with  thee 
And  this  poor  flower  of  poesy 

Which  little  cared  for  fades  not  yet. 


But  since  it  pleased  a  vanish'd  eye, 
I  go  to  plant  it  on  his  tomb, 
That  if  it  can  it  there  may  bloom, 

Or  dying,  there  at  least  may  die. 


26 


IX. 


TT^AIR  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore 
Sailest  the  placid  ocean-plains 
With  my  lost  Arthur's  loved  remains, 

Spread  thy  full  wings,  and  waft  him  o'er. 

So  draw  him  home  to  those  that  mourn 
In  vain  ;  a  favourable  speed 
Ruffle  thy  mirror'd  mast,  and  lead 

Thro'  prosperous  floods  his  holy  urn. 


All  night  no  ruder  air  perplex 

Thy  sliding  keel,  till  Phosphor,  bright 
As  our  pure  love,  thro'  early  light 

Shall  glimmer  on  the  dewy  decks. 

Sphere  all  your  lights  around,  above  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  heavens,  before  the  prow  ; 

Sleep,  gentle  winds,  as  he  sleeps  now, 
My  friend,  the  brother  of  my  love  ; 

My  Arthur,  whom  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run  ; 
Dear  as  the  mother  to  the  son, 

More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me. 


28 


X. 


T   HEAR  the  noise  about  thy  keel  ; 

I  hear  the  bell  struck  in  the  night  ; 

I  see  the  cabin- window  bright ; 
I  see  the  sailor  at  the  wheel. 


Thou  bringest  the  sailor  to  his  wife, 

And  travell'd  men  from  foreign  lands ; 
And  letters  unto  trembling  hands  ; 

And,  thy  dark  freight,  a  vanish'd  life. 


So  bring  him  :   we  have  idle  dreams  : 
This  look  of  quiet  flatters  thus 
Our  home-bred  fancies  :   O  to  us, 

The  fools  of  habit,  sweeter  seems 

To  rest  beneath  the  clover  sod, 

That  takes  the  sunshine  and  the  rains, 
Or  where  the  kneeling  hamlet  drains 

The  chalice  of  the  grapes  of  God  ; 

Than  if  with  thee  the  roaring  wells 

Should  gulf  him  fathom-deep  in  brine  ; 
And  hands  so  often  clasp'd  in  mine 

Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells. 


3° 


/^lALM  is  the  morn  without  a  sound, 
Calm  as  to  suit  a  calmer  grief, 
And  only  thro'  the  faded  leaf 

The  chestnut  pattering  to  the  ground  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  on  this  high  wold, 

And  on  these  dews  that  drench  the  furze, 
And  all  the  silvery  gossamers 

That  twinkle  into  green  and  gold  : 


31 


Calm  and  still  light  on  yon  great  plain 

That  sweeps  with  all  its  autumn  bowers, 
And  crowded  farms  and  lessening  towers, 

To  mingle  with  the  bounding  main  : 

Calm  and  deep  peace  in  this  wide  air, 

These  leaves  that  redden  to  the  fall  ; 
And  in  my  heart,  if  calm  at  all, 

If  any  calm,  a  calm  despair  : 

Calm  on  the  seas,  and  silver  sleep, 

And  waves  that  sway  themselves  in  rest, 
And  dead  calm  in  that  noble  breast 

Which  heaves  but  with  the  heaving  deep. 


XII. 


o,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs 
To  bear  thro'  Heaven  a  tale  of  woe, 
Some  dolorous  message  knit  below 
The  wild  pulsation  of  her  wings  ; 

Like  her  I  go  ;   I  cannot  stay ; 

I  leave  this  mortal  ark  behind, 

A  weight  of  nerves  without  a  mind, 

And  leave  the  cliffs,  and  haste  away 


33 


O'er  ocean-mirrors  rounded  large, 

And  reach  the  glow  of  southern  skies, 
And  see  the  sails  at  distance  rise, 

And  linger  weeping  on  the  marge, 

And  saying,  "Comes  he  thus,  my  friend? 
Is  this  the  end  of  all  my  care  ?  " 
And  circle  moaning  in  the  air : 

"  Is  this  the  end  ?      Is  this  the  end  ?  " 

And  forward  dart  again,  and  play 

About  the  prow,  and  back  return 
To  where  the  body  sits,  and  learn, 

That  I  have  been  an  hour  away. 

3 


34 


XIII. 


'T^EARS  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees 
A  late-lost  form  that  sleep  reveals, 
And  moves  his  doubtful  arms,  and  feels 

Her  place  is  empty,  fall  like  these ; 

Which  weep  a  loss  forever  new, 

A  void  where  heart  on  heart  reposed ; 
And,  where  warm  hands  haveprest  and  clos'd, 

Silence,  till  I  be  silent  too. 


35 


Which  weep  the  comrade  of  my  choice, 
An  awful  thought,  a  life  removed, 
The  human-hearted  man  I  loved, 

A  Spirit,  not  a  breathing  voice. 

Come  Time,  and  teach  me,  many  years, 

I  do  not  suffer  in  a  dream  ; 

For  now  so  strange  do  these  things  seem, 
Mine  eyes  have  leisure  for  their  tears  ; 

My  fancies  time  to  rise  on  wing, 

And  glance  about  the  approaching  sails, 
As  tho'  they  brought  but  merchants'  bales, 

And  not  the  burthen  that  they  bring. 


XIV. 


TF  one  should  bring  me  this  report, 

That  thou  hadst  touch'd  the  land  to-day, 
And  I  went  down  unto  the  quay, 

And  found  thee  lying  in  the  port ; 

And  standing,  muffled  round  with  woe, 
Should  see  thy  passengers  in  rank 
Come  stepping  lightly  down  the  plank, 

And  beckoning  unto  those  they  know  ; 


37 


And  if  along  with  these  should  come 
The  man  I  held  as  half-divine ; 
Should  strike  a  sudden  hand  in  mine, 

And  ask  a  thousand  things  of  home ; 

And  I  should  tell  him  all  my  pain, 

And  how  my  life  had  droop'd  of  late, 
And  he  should  sorrow  o'er  my  state 

And  marvel  what  possess'd  my  brain ; 

And  I  perceived  no  touch  of  change, 
No  hint  of  death  in  all  his  frame, 
But  found  him  all  in  all  the  same, 

I  should  not  feel  it  to  be  strange. 


XV. 


^T^O-NIGHT  the  winds  begin  to  rise 

And  roar  from  yonder  dropping  day 
The  last  red  leaf  is  whirl'd  away, 

The  rooks  are  blown  about  the  skies ; 


The  forest  crack'd,  the  waters  curl'd, 
The  cattle  huddled  on  the  lea ; 
And  wildly  dash'd  on  tower  and  tree 

The  sunbeam  strikes  along  the  world  : 


39 


And  but  for  fancies,  which  aver 

That  all  thy  motions  gently  pass 
Athwart  a  plane  of  molten  glass, 

I  scarce  could  brook  the  strain  and  stir 

That  makes  the  barren  branches  loud  ; 
And  but  for  fear  it  is  not  so, 
The  wild  unrest  that  lives  in  woe 

Would  dote  and  pore  on  yonder  cloud 

That  rises  upward  always  higher, 

And  onward  drags  a  labouring  breast, 
And  topples  round  the  dreary  west, 

A  looming  bastion  fringed  with  fire. 


4° 


XVI. 


words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me  ? 
Can  calm  despair  and  wild  unrest 
Be  tenants  of  a  single  breast, 
Or  sorrow  such  a  changeling  be  ? 

Or  doth  she  only  seem  to  take 

The  touch  of  change  in  calm  or  storm  ; 

But  knows  no  more  of  transient  form 
In  her  deep  self,  than  some  dead  lake 


That  holds  the  shadow  of  a  lark 

Hung  in  the  shadow  of  a  heaven  ? 
Or  has  the  shock,  so  harshly  given, 

Confused  me  like  the  unhappy  bark 

That  strikes  by  night  a  craggy  shelf, 
And  staggers  blindly  ere  she  sink  r 
And  stunn'd  me  from  my  power  to  think 

And  all  my  knowledge  of  myself; 

And  made  me  that  delirious  man 

Whose  fancy  fuses  old  and  new, 
And  flashes  into  false  and  true, 

And  mingles  all  without  a  plan  ? 


42 


XVIT. 


'T^HOU  comest,  much  wept  for:  such  a  breeze 
Compell'd  thy  canvas,  and  my  prayer 
Was  as  the  whisper  of  an  air 

To  breathe  thee  over  lonely  seas. 

For  I  in  spirit  saw  thee  move 

Thro'  circles  of  the  bounding  sky, 
Week  after  week :  the  days  go  by  : 

Come  quick,  thou  bringest  all  I  love. 


43 


Henceforth,  wherever  thou  may'st  roam, 
My  blessing,  like  a  line  of  light, 
Is  on  the  waters  day  and  night, 

And  like  a  beacon  guards  thee  home. 

So  may  whatever  tempest  mars 

Mid-ocean  spare  thee,  sacred  bark  ; 
And  balmy  drops  in  summer  dark 

Slide  from  the  bosom  of  the  stars. 

So  kind  an  office  hath  been  done, 

Such  precious  relics  brought  by  thee ; 
The  dust  of  him  I  shall  not  see 

Till  all  my  widow'd  race  be  run. 


44 


XVIII. 


''T^IS  well  ;  'tis  something  ;   we  may  stand 
Where  he  in  English  earth  is  laid, 
And  from  his  ashes  may  be  made 

The  violet  of  his  native  land. 

'Tis  little;   but  it  looks  in  truth 

As  if  the  quiet  bones  were  blest 
Among  familiar  names  to  rest 

And  in  the  places  of  his  youth. 


45 


Come  then,  pure  hands,  and  bear  the  head 

That  sleeps  or  wears  the  mask  of  sleep, 
And  come,  whatever  loves  to  weep, 
And  hear  the  ritual  of  the  dead. 

Ah  yet,  ev'n  yet,  if  this  might  be, 
I,  falling  on  his  faithful  heart, 
Would  breathing  through  his  lips  impart 

The  life  that  almost  dies  in  me  ; 

That  dies  not,  but  endures  with  pain, 
And  slowly  forms  the  firmer  mind, 
Treasuring  the  look  it  cannot  find, 

The  words  that  are  not  heard  again. 


XIX. 


^ir^HE  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave 

The  darken'd  heart  that  beat  no  more  ; 
They  laid  him  by  the  pleasant  shore, 

And  in  the  hearing  of  the  wave. 

There  twice  a  day  the  Severn  fills ; 
The  salt  sea-water  passes  by, 
And  hushes  half  the  babbling  Wye, 

And  makes  a  silence  in  the  hills. 


The  Wye  is  hush'd  nor  moved  along, 
And  hush'd  my  deepest  grief  of  all, 
When  fill'd  with  tears  that  cannot  fall, 

I  brim  with  sorrow  drowning  song. 

The  tide  flows  down,  the  wave  again 
Is  vocal  in  its  wooded  walls  ; 
My  deeper  anguish  also  falls, 

And  I  can  speak  a  little  then. 


XX. 


^I^HE  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said, 

That  breathe  a  thousand  tender  vows, 
Are  but  as  servants  in  a  house 

Where  lies  the  master  newly  dead  ; 

Who  speak  their  feeling  as  it  is, 

And  weep  the  fulness  from  the  mind  : 
"  It  will  be  hard,"  they  say,  "  to  find 

Another  service  such  as  this." 


49 


My  lighter  moods  are  like  to  these, 

That  out  of  words  a  comfort  win  ; 
But  there  are  other  griefs  within, 

And  tears  that  at  their  fountain  freeze  ; 

For  by  the  hearth  the  children  sit 

Cold  in  that  atmosphere  of  Death, 
And  scarce  endure  to  draw  the  breath, 

Or  like  to  noiseless  phantoms  flit  : 

But  open  converse  is  there  none, 
So  much  the  vital  spirits  sink 
To  see  the  vacant  chair,  and  think, 

"  How  good  !  how  kind  !   and  he  is  gone." 
4 


5° 


XXI. 


T  SING  to  him  that  rests  below, 

And,  since  the  grasses  round  me  wave, 
I  take  the  grasses  of  the  grave, 

And  make  them  pipes  whereon  to  blow. 

The  traveller  hears  me  now  and  then, 

And  sometimes  harshly  will  he  speak  : 
"This  fellow  would  make  weakness  weak. 

And  melt  the  waxen  hearts  of  men.'3 


51 


Another  answers,  "  Let  him  be, 

He  loves  to  make  parade  of  pain, 
That  with  his  piping  he  may  gain 

The  praise  that  comes  to  constancy.5' 

A  third  is  wroth,  "  Is  this  an  hour 

For  private  sorrow's  barren  song, 

When  more  and  more  the  people  throng 

The  chairs  and  thrones  of  civil  power  ? 

"A  time  to  sicken  and  to  swoon, 

When  Science  reaches  forth  her  arms 
To  feel  from  world  to  world,  and  charms 

Her  secret  from  the  latest  moon  ? JJ 


52 

Behold,  ye  speak  an  idle  thing : 

Ye  never  knew  the  sacred  dust : 
I  do  but  sing  because  I  must, 

And  pipe  but  as  the  linnets  sing  : 

And  one  is  glad  ;   her  note  is  gay, 

For  now  her  little  ones  have  ranged  ; 
And  one  is  sad  ;   her  note  is  changed, 

Because  her  brood  is  stol'n  away. 


53 


XXII. 


'T^HE  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go, 

Which  led  by  tracts  that  pleased  us  well, 
Thro'  four  sweet  years  arose  and  fell, 

From  flower  to  flower,  from  snow  to  snow  : 


And  we  with  singing  cheer'd  the  way, 

And  crown'd  with  all  the  season  lent, 
From  April  on  to  April  went, 

And  glad  at  heart  from  May  to  May : 


54 


But  where  the  path  we  walk'd  began 
To  slant  the  fifth  autumnal  slope, 
As  we  descended,  following  Hope, 

There  sat  the  Shadow  fear'd  of  man  ; 

Who  broke  our  fair  companionship, 

And  spread  his  mantle  dark  and  cold, 
And  wrapt  thee  formless  in  the  fold, 

And  dull'd  the  murmur  on  thy  lip, 

And  bore  thee  where  I  could  not  see 
Nor  follow,  tho'  I  walk  in  haste, 
And  think  that  somewhere  in  the  waste 

The  Shadow  sits  and  waits  for  me. 


55 


XXIII. 


,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut, 
Or  breaking  into  song  by  fits, 
Alone,  alone,  to  where  he  sits, 
The  Shadow  cloak'd  from  head  to  foot, 

Who  keeps  the  keys  of  all  the  creeds, 
I  wander,  often  falling  lame, 
And  looking  back  to  whence  I  came, 

Or  on  to  where  the  pathway  leads ; 


And  crying,  "  How  changed  from  where  it  ran 
Thro'  lands  where  not  a  leaf  was  dumb  ; 
But  all  the  lavish  hills  would  hum 

The  murmur  of  a  happy  Pan  : 

"  When  each  by  turns  was  guide  to  each, 
And  Fancy  light  from  Fancy  caught, 
And  Thought  leapt  out  to  wed  withThought 

Ere  Thought  could  wed  itself  with  Speech  ; 

"  And  all  we  met  was  fair  and  good, 

And  all  was  good  that  Time  could  bring, 
And  all  the  secret  of  the  Spring 

Moved  in  the  chambers  of  the  blood  ; 


57 


"  And  many  an  old  philosophy 

On  Argive  heights  divinely  sang, 
And  round  us  all  the  thicket  rang 

To  many  a  flute  of  Arcady." 


XXIV. 


A  ND  was  the  day  of  my  delight 
As  pure  and  perfect  as  I  say  ? 
The  very  source  and  fount  of  Day 
Is  dash'd  with  wandering  isles  of  night. 

If  all  was  good  and  fair  we  met, 

This  earth  had  been  the  Paradise 
It  never  look'd  to  human  eyes 

Since  Adam  left  his  garden  yet. 


59 

And  is  it  that  the  haze  of  grief 

Makes  former  gladness  loom  so  great  ? 

The  lowness  of  the  present  state, 
That  sets  the  past  in  this  relief? 

Or  that  the  past  will  always  win 

A  glory  from  its  being  far ; 

And  orb  into  the  perfect  star 
We  saw  not,  when  we  moved  therein  ? 


6o 


XXV. 


T   KNOW  that  this  was  Life,--  the  track 
Whereon  with  equal  feet  we  fared ; 
And  then,  as  now,  the  day  prepared 

The  daily  burden  for  the  back. 

But  this  it  was  that  made  me  move 
As  light  as  carrier-birds  in  air  ; 
I  loved  the  weight  I  had  to  bear, 

Because  it  needed  help  of  love  : 


6i 


Nor  could  I  weary,  heart  or  limb, 

When  mighty  Love  would  cleave  in  twain 

The  lading  of  a  single  pain, 
And  part  it,  giving  half  to  him. 


62 


XXVI. 


OT1LL  onward  winds  the  dreary  way  ; 
I  with  it ;   for  I  long  to  prove 
No  lapse  of  moons  can  canker  Love, 

Whatever  fickle  tongues  may  say. 

And  if  that  eye  which  watches  guilt 

And  goodness,  and  hath  power  to  see 
Within  the  green  the  moulder'd  tree, 

And  towers  fall'n  as  soon  as  built,  — 


63 

O,  if  indeed  that  eye  foresee 

Or  see  (in  Him  is  no  before) 

In  more  of  life  true  life  no  more, 

And  Love  the  indifference  to  be, 

Then  might  I  find,  ere  yet  the  morn 
Breaks  hither  over  Indian  seas, 
That  Shadow  waiting  with  the  keys, 

To  shroud  me  from  my  proper  scorn. 


XXVII. 


T  ENVY  not  in  any  moods 

The  captive  void  of  noble  rage, 
The  linnet  born  within  the  cage, 

That  never  knew  the  summer  woods  : 

I  envy  not  the  beast  that  takes 

His  license  in  the  field  of  time, 
Unfetter'd  by  the  sense  of  crime, 

To  whom  a  conscience  never  wakes  ; 


Nor,  what  may  count  itself  as  blest, 

The  heart  that  never  plighted  troth, 
But  stagnates  in  the  weeds  of  sloth ; 

Nor  any  want-begotten  rest. 

V 

I  hold  it  true,  whatever  befall  ; 

I  feel  it,  when  I  sorrow  most ; 

'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost 
Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all. 


66 


XXVIII. 


^  I^HE  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ  : 
The  moon  is  hid ;  the  night  is  still ; 
The  Christmas  bells  from  hill  to  hill 

Answer  each  other  in  the  mist. 

Four  voices  of  four  hamlets  round, 

From  far  and  near,  on  mead  and  moor, 
Swell  out  and  fail,  as  if  a  door 

Were  shut  between  me  and  the  sound : 


67 


Each  voice  four  changes  on  the  wind, 
That  now  dilate,  and  now  decrease, 
Peace  and  good-will,  good-will  and  peace, 

Peace  and  good-will,  to  all  mankind. 

This  year  I  slept  and  woke  with  pain, 
I  almost  wish'd  no  more  to  wake, 
And  that  my  hold  on  life  would  break 

Before  I  heard  those  bells  again  : 

But  they  my  troubled  spirit  rule, 

For  they  controll'd  me  when  a  boy  ; 
They  bring  me  sorrow  touch'd  with  joy, 

The  merry,  merry  bells  of  Yule. 


68 


XXIX. 


Tit  TlTH  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve 
As  daily  vexes  household  peace, 
And  chains  regret  to  his  decease, 

How  dare  we  keep  our  Christmas-eve  ; 

Which  brings  no  more  a  welcome  guest 
To  enrich  the  threshold  of  the  night 
With  shower'd  largess  of  delight, 

In  dance  and  song  and  game  and  jest. 


69 


Yet  go,  and  while  the  holly-boughs 
Entwine  the  cold  baptismal  font, 
Make  one  wreath  more  for  Use  and  Wont 

That  guard  the  portals  of  the  house  ; 

Old  sisters  of  a  day  gone  by, 

Gray  nurses,  loving  nothing  new  ; 
Why  should  they  miss  their  yearly  due 

Before  their  time  ?     They  too  will  die. 


7° 


XXX. 


TT 7lTH  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave 
The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth ; 
A  rainy  cloud  possess'd  the  earth, 

And  sadly  fell  our  Christmas-eve. 

At  our  old  pastimes  in  the  hall 

We  gamboll'd,  making  vain  pretence 
Of  gladness,  with  an  awful  sense 

Of  one  mute  Shadow  watching  all. 


71 


We  paused  :   the  winds  were  in  the  beech  : 
We  heard  them  sweep  the  winter  land  ; 
And  in  a  circle  hand-in-hand 

Sat  silent,  looking  each  at  each. 

Then  echo-like  our  voices  rang  ; 

We  sung,  tho'  every  eye  was  dim, 
A  merry  song  we  sang  with  him 

Last  year  :   impetuously  we  sang  : 

We  ceased :   a  gentler  feeling  crept 

Upon  us  :   surely  rest  is  meet : 

"  They  rest,"  we  said,  "  their  sleep  is  sweet," 
And  silence  follow'd,  and  we  wept. 


Our  voices  took  a  higher  range ; 

Once  more  we  sang  :   "They  do  not  die 
Nor  lose  their  mortal  sympathy, 

Nor  change  to  us,  although  they  change  ; 

"  Rapt  from  the  fickle  and  the  frail 

With  gather'd  power,  yet  the  same, 
Pierces  the  keen  seraphic  flame 

From  orb  to  orb,  from  veil  to  veil." 

Rise,  happy  morn,  rise,  holy  morn, 

Draw  forth  the  cheerful  day  from  night 
O  Father,  touch  the  east,  and  light 

The  light  that  shone  when  Hope  was  born. 


73 


XXXI. 


TT  7HEN  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave, 
And  home  to  Mary's  house  return'd, 
Was  this  demanded,  -  -  if  he  yearn'd 

To  hear  her  weeping  by  his  grave  ? 

"Where  wert  thou,  brother,  those  four  days?  " 
There  lives  no  record  of  reply, 
Which  telling  what  it  is  to  die 

Had  surely  added  praise  to  praise. 


74 


From  every  house  the  neighbours  met, 

The  streets  were  fill'd  with  joyful  sound, 
A  solemn  gladness  even  crown'd 

The  purple  brows  of  Olivet. 

Behold  a  man  raised  up  by  Christ ! 

The  rest  remaineth  unreveal'd  ; 

He  told  it  not ;  or  something  seal'd 
The  lips  of  that  Evangelist. 


75 


XXXII. 


T  TER  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer, 
Nor  other  thought  her  mind  admits 
But,  he  was  dead,  and  there  he  sits, 
And  he  that  brought  him  back  is  there. 

Then  one  deep  love  doth  supersede 
All  other,  when  her  ardent  gaze 
Roves  from  the  living  brother's  face, 

And  rests  upon  the  Life  indeed. 


76 


All  subtle  thought,  all  curious  fears, 

Borne  down  by  gladness  so  complete, 
She  bows,  she  bathes  the  Saviour's  feet 

With  costly  spikenard  and  with  tears. 

Thrice  blest  whose  lives  are  faithful  prayers, 
Whose  loves  in  higher  love  endure  ; 
What  souls  possess  themselves  so  pure, 

Or  is  there  blessedness  like  theirs? 


77 


XXXIII. 


/^\  THOU  that  after  toil  and  storm 

Mayst  seem  to  have  reach'd  a  purer  air, 
Whose  faith  has  centre  everywhere, 

Nor  cares  to  fix  itself  to  form, 

Leave  thou  thy  sister,  when  she  prays, 

Her  early  Heaven,  her  happy  views ; 
Nor  thou  with  shadow'd  hint  confuse 

A  life  that  leads  melodious  days. 


78 


Her  faith  thro'  form  is  pure  as  thine, 
Her  hands  are  quicker  unto  good 
O,  sacred  be  the  flesh  an'd  blood 

To  which  she  links  a  truth  divine ! 

See  thou,  that  countest  reason  ripe 
In  holding  by  the  law  within, 
Thou  fail  not  in  a  world  of  sin, 

And  ev'n  for  want  of  such  a  type. 


79 


XXXIV. 

own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this, 
That  life  shall  live  for  evermore, 
Else  earth  is  darkness  at  the  core, 
And  dust  and  ashes  all  that  is ; 

This  round  of  green,  this  orb  of  flame, 
Fantastic  beauty ;  such  as  lurks 
In  some  wild  Poet,  when  he  works 

Without  a  conscience  or  an  aim. 


8o 


What  then  were  God  to  such  as  I  ? 

'T  were  hardly  worth  my  while  to  choose 
Of  things  all  mortal,  or  to  use 

A  little  patience  ere  I  die ; 

'T  were  best  at  once  to  sink  to  peace, 

Like  birds  the  charming  serpent  draws, 
To  drop  head-foremost  in  the  jaws 

Of  vacant  darkness,  and  to  cease. 


8i 


XXXV. 


'V/'ET  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust 
Should  murmur  from  the  narrow  house, 
"  The  cheeks  drop  in  ;   the  body  bows  ; 

Man  dies  :   nor  is  there  hope  in  dust :  " 

Might  I  not  say,  "  Yet  even  here, 

But  for  one  hour,  O  Love,  I  strive 
To  keep  so  sweet  a  thing  alive  "  ? 

But  I  should  turn  mine  ears  and  hear 


82 


The  meanings  of  the  homeless  sea, 

The  sound  of  streams  that  swift  or  slow 
Draw  down  Ionian  hills,  and  sow 

The  dust  of  continents  to  be  ; 

And  Love  would  answer  with  a  sigh, 

"  The  sound  of  that  forgetful  shore 

Will  change  my  sweetness  more  and  more, 

Half-dead  to  know  that  I  shall  die." 

O  me !  what  profits  it  to  put 

An  idle  case  ?      If  Death  were  seen 
At  first  as  Death,  Love  had  not  been, 

Or  been  in  narrowest  working  shut, 


Mere  fellowship  of  sluggish  moods, 

Or  in  his  coarsest  Satyr-shape 

Had  bruised  the  herb  and  crush'd  the  grape, 
And  bask'd  and  batten'd  in  the  woods 


XXXVI. 


'T^HO'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join, 
Deep-seated  in  our  mystic  frame, 
We  yield  all  blessing  to  the  name 

Of  Him  that  made  them  current  coin  ; 

For  Wisdom  dealt  with  mortal  powers, 

Where  truth  in  closest  words  shall  fail, 
When  truth  embodied  in  a  tale 

Shall  enter  in  at  lowly  doors. 


And  so  the  Word  had  breath,  and  wrought 
With  human  hands  the  creed  of  creeds 
In  loveliness  of  perfect  deeds, 

More  strong  than  all  poetic  thought  ; 

Which  he  may  read  that  binds  the  sheaf, 
Or  builds  the  house,  or  digs  the  grave, 
And  those  wild  eyes  that  watch  the  wave 

In  roarings  round  the  coral  reef. 


86 


XXXVII. 


T  TRANIA  speaks  with  darken'd  brow  : 

"  Thou  pratest  here  where  thou  art  least ; 
This  faith  has  many  a  purer  priest, 

And  many  an  abler  voice  than  thou. 

"  Go  down  beside  thy  native  rill, 
On  thy  Parnassus  set  thy  feet, 
And  hear  thy  laurel  whisper  sweet 

About  the  ledges  of  the  hill." 


And  my  Melpomene  replies, 

A  touch  of  shame  upon  her  cheek 
"  I  am  not  worthy  ev'n  to  speak 

Of  thy  prevailing  mysteries  ; 

"  For  I  am  but  an  earthly  Muse, 
And  owning  but  a  little  art 
To  lull  with  song  an  aching  heart, 

And  render  human  love  his  dues ; 

"  But  brooding  on  the  dear  one  dead, 
And  all  he  said  of  things  divine, 
(And  dear  to  me  as  sacred  wine 

To  dying  lips  is  all  he  said,) 


88 


"  I  murmur'd,  as  I  came  along, 

Of  comfort  clasp'd  in  truth  reveal'd  ; 
And  loiter'd  in  the  Master's  field, 

And  darken'd  sanctities  with  song." 


89 


XXXVIII. 


1TI  7lTH  weary  steps  I  loiter  on, 
Tho'  always  under  alter'd  skies 
The  purple  from  the  distance  dies, 

My  prospect  and  horizon  gone. 

No  joy  the  blowing  season  gives, 
The  herald  melodies  of  spring, 
But  in  the  songs  I  love  to  sing 

A  doubtful  gleam  of  solace  lives. 


9° 


If  any  care  for  what  is  here 

Survive  in  spirits  render'd  free, 
Then  are  these  songs  I  sing  of  thee 

Not  all  ungrateful  to  thine  ear. 


91 


XXXIX. 


/^loULD  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour, 
And  look  on  Spirits  breathed  away, 
As  on  a  maiden  in  the  day 

When  first  she  wears  her  orange-flower  ! 

When  crown'd  with  blessing  she  doth  rise 
To  take  her  latest  leave  of  home, 
And  hopes  and  light  regrets  that  come 

Make  April  of  her  tender  eyes ; 


92 


And  doubtful  joys  the  father  move, 

And  tears  are  on  the  mother's  face, 
As  parting  with  a  long  embrace 

She  enters  other  realms  of  love  ; 

Her  office  there  to  rear,  to  teach, 
Becoming,  as  is  meet  and  fit, 
A  link  among  the  days,  to  knit 

The  generations  each  with  each  ; 

And,  doubtless,  unto  thee  is  given 
A  life  that  bears  immortal  fruit 
In  such  great  offices  as  suit 

The  full-grown  energies  of  heaven. 


93 


Ay  me,  the  difference  I  discern  ! 

How  often  shall  her  old  fireside 

Be  cheer'd  with  tidings  of  the  bride, 

How  often  she  herself  return, 

And  tell  them  all  they  would  have  told, 

And  bring  her  babe,  and  make  her  boast, 
Till  even  those  that  rniss'd  her  most 

Shall  count  new  things  as  dear  as  old  : 

But  thou  and  I  have  shaken  hands, 

Till  growing  winters  lay  me  low ; 
My  paths  are  in  the  fields  I  know, 

And  thine  in  undiscover'd  lands. 


94 


XL. 


r  I^HY  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss 

Did  ever  rise  from  high  to  higher ; 
As  mounts  the  heavenward  altar-fire, 

As  flies  the  lighter  thro'  the  gross. 

But  thou  art  turn'd  to  something  strange, 
And  I  have  lost  the  links  that  bound 
Thy  changes ;  here  upon  the  ground, 

No  more  partaker  of  thy  change. 


95 


Deep  folly  !  yet  that  this  could  be,  - 

That  I  could  wing  my  will  with  might 
To  leap  the  grades  of  life  and  light, 

And  flash  at  once,  my  friend,  to  thee  : 

For  tho'  my  nature  rarely  yields 

To  that  vague  fear  implied  in  death  ; 
Nor  shudders  at  the  gulfs  beneath, 

The  howlings  from  forgotten  fields ; 

Yet  oft  when  sundown  skirts  the  moor 

An  inner  trouble  I  behold, 

A  spectral  doubt  which  makes  me  cold, 
That  I  shall  be  thy  mate  no  more, 


96 


Tho'  following  with  an  upward  mind 

The  wonders  that  have  come  to  thee, 
Thro'  all  the  secular  to-be, 

But  evermore  a  life  behind. 


97 


XLI. 


f  VEX  my  heart  with  fancies  dim  : 
He  still  outstript  me  in  the  race  ; 
It  was  but  unity  of  place 
That  made  me  dream  I  rank'd  with  him. 

And  so  may  Place  retain  us  still, 

And  he  the  much-beloved  again, 
A  lord  of  large  experience,  train 

To  riper  growth  the  mind  and  will : 

7 


And  what  delights  can  equal  those 
That  stir  the  spirit's  inner  deeps, 
When  one  that  loves,  but  knows  not,  reaps 

A  truth  from  one  that  loves  and  knows  ? 


99 


XLII. 


TF  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one, 
And  every  spirit's  folded  bloom 
Thro'  all  its  intervital  gloom 

In  some  long  trance  should  slumber  on  ; 

Unconscious  of  the  sliding  hour, 

Bare  of  the  body,  might  it  last, 
And  silent  traces  of  the  past 

Be  all  the  colour  of  the  flower  : 


IOO 


So  then  were  nothing  lost  to  man  ; 
So  that  still  garden  of  the  souls 
In  many  a  figured  leaf  enrolls 

The  total  world  since  life  began  ; 

And  love  will  last  as  pure  and  whole 

As  when  he  loved  me  here  in  Time, 
And  at  the  spiritual  prime 

Rewaken  with  the  dawning  soul. 


101 


XLIII. 


T  Tow  fares  it  with  the  happy. dead  r 

For  here  the  man  is  more  and-  mace';; 
But  he  forgets  the  days  before 

God  shut  the  doorways  of  his  head. 

The  days  have  vanish'd,  tone  and  tint, 
And  yet  perhaps  the  hoarding  sense 
Gives  out  at  times  (he  knows  not  whence) 

A  little  flash,  a  mystic  hint ; 


IO2 


And  in  the  long  harmonious  years 

(If  Death  so  taste  Lethean  springs) 
May  some  dim  touch  of  earthly  things 

Surprise  thee  ranging  with  thy  peers. 

If  such  a  dreamy  touch  should  fall, 

A3  tnnn  thee  .round,  resolve  the  doubt ; 
My  guardian  angel  will  speak  out 
In  that  high  place,  and  tell  thee  all. 


io3 


XLIV. 


F  I  ^  HE  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky, 

What  time  his  tender  palm  is  prest 
Against  the  circle  of  the  breast, 

Has  never  thought  that  "  this  is  I "  : 

But  as  he  grows  he  gathers  much, 

And  learns  the  use  of  "  I,"  and  "  me," 
And  finds  "  I  am  not  what  I  see, 

And  other  than  the  things  I  touch." 


104 


So  rounds  he  to  a  separate  mind 

From  whence  clear  memory  may  begin, 
As  thro'  the  frame  that  binds  him  in 

His  isolation  grows  defined. 

This  use  may  lie  in  blood  and  breath, 

Which  else  were  fruitless  of  their  due, 
Had  man  to  learn  himself  anew 

Beyond  the  second  birth  of  Death. 


I05 


XLV. 


\\  T&  ranging  down  this  lower  track, 

The  path  we  came  by,  thorn  and  flower, 
Is  shadow'd  by  the  growing  hour, 

Lest  life  should  fail  in  looking  back. 

So  be  it :  there  no  shade  can  last 

In  that  deep  dawn  behind  the  tomb, 

But  clear  from  marge  to  marge  shall  bloom 

The  eternal  landscape  of  the  past ; 


io6 

A  lifelong  tract  of  time  reveal'd ; 

The  fruitful  hours  of  still  increase ; 

Days  order'd  in  a  wealthy  peace, 
And  those  five  years  its  richest  field. 

O  Love,  thy  province  were  not  large, 

A  bounded  field,  nor  stretching  far ; 
Look  also,  Love,  a  brooding  star, 

A  rosy  warmth  from  marge  to  marge. 


107 


XLVI. 


'T^  HAT  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole, 
Should  move  his  rounds,  and  fusing  all 
The  skirts  of  self  again,  should  fall 

Remerging  in  the  general  Soul, 


Is  faith  as  vague  as  all  unsweet : 
Eternal  form  shall  still  divide 
The  eternal  soul  from  all  beside ; 

And  I  shall  know  him  when  we  meet  : 


io8 


And  we  shall  sit  at  endless  feast, 

Enjoying  each  the  other's  good  : 
What  vaster  dream  can  hit  the  mood 

Of  Love  on  earth  ?     He  seeks  at  least 

Upon  the  last  and  sharpest  height, 
Before  the  spirits  fade  away, 
Some  landing-place,  to  clasp  and  say, 

"  Farewell !     We  lose  ourselves  in  light." 


109 


XLVII. 


FF  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born, 
Were  taken  to  be  such  as  closed 
Grave  doubts  and  answers  here  proposed, 

Then  these  were  such  as  men  might  scorn  : 

Her  care  is  not  to  part  and  prove  ; 

She  takes,  when  harsher  moods  remit, 
What  slender  shade  of  doubt  may  flit, 

And  makes  it  vassal  unto  love  : 


I  10 


And  hence,  indeed,  she  sports  with  words, 
But  better  serves  a  wholesome  law, 
And  holds  it  sin  and  shame  to  draw 

The  deepest  measure  from  the  chords  : 

Nor  dare  she  trust  a  larger  lay, 

But  rather  loosens  from  the  lip 

Short  swallow-flights  of  song,  that  dip 

Their  wings  in  tears,  and  skim  away. 


1 1 1 


XLVIII. 


Tj^ROM  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools, 
Let  random  influences  glance, 
Like  light  in  many  a  shiver'd  lance 

That  breaks  about  the  dappled  pools : 

The  lightest  wave  of  thought  shall  lisp, 
The  fancy's  tenderest  eddy  wreathe, 
The  slightest  air  of  song  shall  breathe 

To  make  the  sullen  surface  crisp. 


I  12 


And  look  thy  look,  and  go  thy  way, 

But  blame  not  thou  the  winds  that  make 
The  seeming-wanton  ripple  break, 

The  tender-pencil'd  shadow  play. 

Beneath  all  fancied  hopes  and  fears, 

Ay  me !   the  sorrow  deepens  down, 
Whose  muffled  motions  blindly  drown 

The  bases  of  my  life  in  tears. 


XLIX. 


T3  E  near  me  when  my  light  is  low, 

When  the  blood  creeps,  and  the  nerves  prick 
And  tingle ;   and  the  heart  is  sick, 

And  all  the  wheels  of  Being  slow. 

Be  near  me  when  the  sensuous  frame 

Is  rack'd  with  pangs  that  conquer  trust ; 
And  Time,  a  maniac  scattering  dust, 

And  Life,  a  Fury  slinging  flame. 
8 


Be  near  me  when  my  faith  is  dry, 

And  men  the  flies  of  latter  spring, 
That  lay  their  eggs,  and  sting  and  sing, 

And  weave  their  petty  cells  and  die. 

Be  near  me  when  I  fade  away, 

To  point  the  term  of  human  strife, 
And  on  the  low  dark  verge  of  life 

The  twilight  of  eternal  day. 


L. 


1T\O  we  indeed  desire  the  dead 

Should  still  be  near  us  at  our  side  ? 
Is  there  no  baseness  we  would  hide  ? 

No  inner  vileness  that  we  dread  ? 


Shall  he  for  whose  applause  I  strove, 

I  had  such  reverence  for  his  blame, 
See  with  clear  eye  some  hidden  shame, 

And  I  be  lessen'd  in  his  love  ? 


n6 


I  wrong  the  grave  with  fears  untrue  : 

Shall  love  be  blamed  for  want  of  faith  ? 
There  must  be  wisdom  with  great  Death 

The  dead  shall  look  me  thro'  and  thro'. 

Be  near  us  when  we  climb  or  fall  : 

Ye  watch,  like  God,  the  rolling  hours 
With  larger  other  eyes  than  ours, 

To  make  allowance  for  us  all. 


LI. 


T   CANNOT  love  thee  as  I  ought, 

For  love  reflects  the  thing  heloved ; 
My  words  are  only  words,  and  moved 

Upon  the  topmost  froth  of  thought. 

"  Yet  blame  not  thou  thy  plaintive  song," 
The  Spirit  of  true  love  replied  ; 
"  Thou  canst  not  move  me  from  thy  side, 

Nor  human  frailty  do  me  wrong. 


n8 

"  What  keeps  a  spirit  wholly  true 
To  that  ideal  which  he  bears  ? 
What  record  ?  not  the  sinless  years 

That  breathed  beneath  the  Syrian  blue  : 

"So  fret  not,  like  an  idle  girl, 

That  life  is  dash'd  with  flecks  of  sin. 

Abide  :   thy  wealth  is  gathered  in, 
When  Time  hath  sunder'd  shell  from  pearl." 


LIT. 


T  Tow  many  a  father  have  I  seen, 
A  sober  man,  among  his  boys, 
Whose  youth  was  full  of  foolish  noise, 

Who  wears  his  manhood  hale  and  green  : 

And  dare  we  to  this  fancy  give, 

That  had  the  wild  oat  not  been  sown, 
The  soil,  left  barren,  scarce  had  grown 

The  grain  by  which  a  man  may  live  ? 


120 

Oh,  if  we  held  the  doctrine  sound 

For  life  outliving  heats  of  youth, 
Yet  who  would  preach  it  as  a  truth 

To  those  that  eddy  round  and  round  ? 

Hold  thou  the  good  :   define  it  well : 

For  fear  divine  Philosophy 

Should  push  beyond  her  mark,  and  be 
Procuress  to  the  Lords  of  Hell. 


121 


LIII. 


/^\H  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good 
Will  be  the  final  goal  of  ill, 
To  pangs  of  nature,  sins  of  will, 

Defects  of  doubt,  and  taints  of  blood  ; 

That  nothing  walks  with  aimless  feet  ; 
That  not  one  life  shall  be  destroy'd, 
Or  cast  as  rubbish  to  the  void, 

When  God  hath  made  the  pile  complete  ; 


122 

That  not  a  worm  is  cloven  in  vain  ; 
That  not  a  moth  with  vain  desire 
Is  shrivel'd  in  a  fruitless  fire, 

Or  but  subserves  another's  gain. 

Behold,  we  know  not  anything ; 

I  can  but  trust  that  good  shall  fall 
At  last  —  far  off — at  last,  to  all, 

And  every  winter  change  to  spring. 

So  runs  my  dream :   but  what  am  I  ? 
An  infant  crying  in  the  night : 
An  infant  crying  for  the  light : 

And  with  no  language  but  a  cry. 


I23 


LIV. 

'T^HE  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole 
No  life  may  fail  beyond  the  grave, 
Derives  it  not  from  what  we  have 

The  likest  God  within  the  soul  ? 

Are  God  and  Nature  then  at  strife, 

That  Nature  lends  such  evil  dreams  ? 
So  careful  of  the  type  she  seems, 

So  careless  of  the  single  life ; 


I24 

That  I,  considering  everywhere 

Her  secret  meaning  in  her  deeds, 
And  rinding  that  of  fifty  seeds 

She  often  brings  but  one  to  bear, 

I  falter  where  I  firmly  trod, 

And  falling  with  my  weight  of  cares 
Upon  the  great  world's  altar-stairs 

That  slope  thro'  darkness  up  to  God, 

I  stretch  lame  hands  of  faith,  and  grope, 
And  gather  dust  and  chaff,  and  call 
To  what  I  feel  is  Lord  of  all, 

And  faintly  trust  the  larger  hope. 


I25 


LV. 


"Oo  careful  of  the  type?  "  but  no. 

From  scarped  cliff  and  quarried  stone 
She  cries,  "  A  thousand  types  are  gone 

I  care  for  nothing,  all  shall  go. 

"  Thou  makest  thine  appeal  to  me  : 
I  bring  to  life,  I  bring  to  death  : 
The  spirit  does  but  mean  the  breath  : 

I  know  no  more."     And  he,  shall  he, 


126 


Man,  her  last  work,  who  seem'd  so  fair, 
Such  splendid  purpose  in  his  eyes, 
Who  roll'd  the  psalm  to  wintry  skies, 

Who  built  him  fanes  of  fruitless  prayer, 

Who  trusted  God  was  love  indeed 
And  love  Creation's  final  law,  - 
Tho'  Nature,  red  in  tooth  and  claw 

With  ravine,  shriek'd  against  his  creed,  - 

Who  loved,  who  sufFer'd  countless  ills, 
Who  battled  for  the  True,  the  Just, 
Be  blown  about  the  desert  dust, 

Or  seal'd  within  the  iron  hills  ? 


127 

No  more  ?     A  monster  then,  a  dream, 
A  discord.      Dragons  of  the  prime, 
That  tare  each  other  in  their  slime, 

Were  mellow  music  match'd  with  him. 

O  life  as  futile,  then,  as  frail ! 

O  for  thy  voice  to  soothe  and  bless ! 

What  hope  of  answer,  or  redress  ? 
Behind  the  veil,  behind  the  veil. 


128 


LVI. 


T)EACE;  come  away:   the  song  of  woe 

Is  after  all  an  earthly  song  : 

Peace  ;   come  away  :   we  do  him  wrong 
To  sing  so  wildly  :   let  us  go. 

Come  ;   let  us  go  :   your  cheeks  are  pale  ; 
But  half  my  life  I  leave  behind  : 
Methinks  my  friend  is  richly  shrined  ; 

But  I  shall  pass ;   my  work  will  fail. 


I  29 

Yet  in  these  ears,  till  hearing  dies, 

One  set  slow  bell  will  seem  to  toll 
The  passing  of  the  sweetest  soul 

That  ever  look'd  with  human  eyes. 

I  hear  it  now,  and  o'er  and  o'er, 
Eternal  greetings  to  the  dead ; 
And  "Ave,  Ave,  Ave,"  said, 

"  Adieu,  adieu  "  for  evermore. 


130 


LVII. 


TN  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell : 
Like  echoes  in  sepulchral  halls, 
As  drop  by  drop  the  water  falls 

In  vaults  and  catacombs,  they  fell  ; 

And,  falling,  idly  broke  the  peace 

Of  hearts  that  beat  from  day  to  day, 
Half  conscious  of  their  dying  clay, 

And  those  cold  crypts  where  they  shall  cease. 


The  high  Muse  answer'd  :   "  Wherefore  grieve 
Thy  brethren  with  a  fruitless  tear  ? 
Abide  a  little  longer  here, 

And  thou  shalt  take  a  nobler  leave." 


I32 


LVIII. 


S^\  SORROW,  wilt  thou  live  with  me, 

No  casual  mistress,  but  a  wife, 
My  bosom-friend  and  half  of  life  ; 
As  I  confess  it  needs  must  be  ; 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  rule  my  blood, 
Be  sometimes  lovely  like  a  bride, 
And  put  thy  harsher  moods  aside, 

If  thou  wilt  have  me  wise  and  good. 


'33 

My  centred  passion  cannot  move, 
Nor  will  it  lessen  from  to-day  ; 
But  I  '11  have  leave  at  times  to  play 

As  with  the  creature  of  my  love  ; 

And  set  thee  forth,  for  thou  art  mine, 

With  so  much  hope  for  years  to  come, 
That,  howsoe'er  I  know  thee,  some 

Could  hardly  tell  what  name  were  thine. 


'34 


LIX. 


IE  past;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone  : 
My  spirit  loved  and  loves  him  yet, 
Like  some  poor  girl  whose  heart  is  set 
On  one  whose  rank  exceeds  her  own. 

He  mixing  with  his  proper  sphere, 
She  finds  the  baseness  of  her  lot, 
Half  jealous  of  she  knows  not  what, 

And  envying  all  that  meet  him  there. 


135 


The  little  village  looks  forlorn  ; 

She  sighs  amid  her  narrow  days, 
Moving  about  the  household  ways, 

In  that  dark  house  where  she  was  born. 

The  foolish  neighbours  come  and  go, 

And  tease  her  till  the  day  draws  by  : 
At  night  she  weeps,  "  How  vain  am  I ! 

How  should  he  love  a  thing  so  low?" 


i36 


LX. 


TF,  in  thy  second  state  sublime, 

Thy  ransom'd  reason  change  replies 
With  all  the  circle  of  the  wise, 

The  perfect  flower  of  human  time ; 

And  if  thou  cast  thine  eyes  below, 

How  dimly  character'd  and  slight, 

How  dwarf 'd  a  growth  of  cold  and  night, 

How  blanch'd  with  darkness  must  I  grow  ! 


Yet  turn  thee  to  the  doubtful  shore, 

Where  thy  first  form  was  made  a  man  ; 
I  loved  thee,  Spirit,  and  love,  nor  can 

The  soul  of  Shakespeare  love  thee  more. 


'38 


LX1. 


'H  f^HO'  if  an  eye  that 's  downward  cast 

Could  make  thee  somewhat  blench  or  fail, 
Then  be  my  love  an  idle  tale, 

And  fading  legend  of  the  past ; 

And  thou,  as  one  that  once  declined, 

When  he  was  little  more  than  boy, 
On  some  unworthy  heart  with  joy, 

But  lives  to  wed  an  equal  mind  ; 


And  breathes  a  novel  world,  the  while 
His  other  passion  wholly  dies, 
Or  in  the  light  of  deeper  eyes 

Is  matter  for  a  flying  smile. 


140 


LXII. 


"VT^ET  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven, 

And  love  in  which  my  hound  has  part, 
Can  hang  no  weight  upon  my  heart 

In  its  assumptions  up  to  heaven  ; 

And  I  am  so  much  more  than  these, 

As  thou,  perchance,  art  more  than  I, 
And  yet  I  spare  them  sympathy, 

And  I  would  set  their  pains  at  ease. 


So  mayst  thou  watch  me  where  I  weep, 
As,  unto  vaster  motions  bound, 
The  circuits  of  thine  orbit  round 

A  higher  height,  a  deeper  deep. 


142 


LXIII. 


~^\OST  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been, 
As  some  divinely  gifted  man, 
Whose  life  in  low  estate  began 
And  on  a  simple  village  green  ; 

Who  breaks  his  birth's  invidious  bar, 

And  grasps  the  skirts  of  happy  chance, 
And  breasts  the  blows  of  circumstance, 

And  grapples  with  his  evil  star  ; 


H3 


Who  makes  by  force  his  merit  known 
And  lives  to  clutch  the  golden  keys, 
To  mould  a  mighty  state's  decrees, 

And  shape  the  whisper  of  the  throne  ; 

And  moving  up  from  high  to  higher, 

Becomes  on  Fortune's  crowning  slope 
The  pillar  of  a  people's  hope, 

The  centre  of  a  world's  desire ; 

Yet  feels,  as  in  a  pensive  dream, 

When  all  his  active  powers  are  still, 
A  distant  dearness  in  the  hill, 

A  secret  sweetness  in  the  stream, 


144 

The  limit  of  his  narrower  fate, 

While  yet  beside  its  vocal  springs 
He  play'd  at  counsellors  and  kings, 

With  one  that  was  his  earliest  mate  ; 

Who  ploughs  with  pain  his  native  lea 
And  reaps  the  labour  of  his  hands, 
Or  in  the  furrow  musing  stands  : 

"  Does  my  old  friend  remember  me  ? ' 


LXIV. 


OWEET  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt  ; 

I  lull  a  fancy  trouble-tost 

With  "Love's  too  precious  to  be  lost, 
A  little  grain  shall  not  be  spilt." 


And  in  that  solace  can  I  sing, 

Till  out  of  painful  phases  wrought 
There  flutters  up  a  happy  thought, 

Self-balanced  on  a  lightsome  wing  : 
10 


146 

Since  we  deserved  the  name  of  friends, 
And  thine  effect  so  lives  in  me, 
A  part  of  mine  may  live  in  thee, 

And  move  thee  on  to  noble  ends. 


LXV. 


"V/'ou  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased ; 
You  wonder  when  my  fancies  play 
To  find  me  gay  among  the  gay, 

Like  one  with  any  trifle  pleased. 


The  shade  by  which  my  life  was  crost, 
Which  makes  a  desert  in  the  mind, 
Has  made  me  kindly  with  my  kind, 

And  like  to  him  whose  sight  is  lost ; 


148 


Whose  feet  are  guided  thro'  the  land, 

Whose  jest  among  his  friends  is  free, 
Who  takes  the  children  on  his  knee, 

And  winds  their  curls  about  his  hand  : 

He  plays  with  threads,  he  beats  his  chair 
For  pastime,  dreaming  of  the  sky  ; 
His  inner  day  can  never  die, 

His  night  of  loss  is  always  there. 


149 


LXVI. 


\\ 7HEN  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls, 
I  know  that  in  thy  place  of  rest, 
By  that  broad  water  of  the  west, 

There  comes  a  glory  on  the  walls  : 

Thy  marble  bright  in  dark  appears, 
As  slowly  steals  a  silver  flame 
Along  the  letters  of  thy  name, 

And  o'er  the  number  of  thy  years. 


The  mystic  glory  swims  away  ; 

From  off  my  bed  the  moonlight  dies ; 

And,  closing  eaves  of  wearied  eyes, 
I  sleep  till  dusk  is  dipt  in  gray  : 

And  then  I  know  the  mist  is  drawn 
A  lucid  veil  from  coast  to  coast, 
And  in  the  dark  church,  like  a  ghost, 

Thy  tablet  glimmers  to  the  dawn. 


LXVII. 

in  the  down  I  sink  my  head, 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  times  my  breath ; 
Sleep,  Death's  twin-brother,  knows  not  Death, 
Nor  can  I  dream  of  thee  as  dead  : 

I  walk  as  ere  I  walk'd  forlorn, 

When  all  our  path  was  fresh  with  dew, 

And  all  the  bugle  breezes  blew 
Reveillee  to  the  breaking  morn. 


152 


But  what  is  this  ?      I  turn  about, 

I  find  a  trouble  in  thine  eye, 

Which  makes  me  sad  I  know  not  why, 
Nor  can  my  dream  resolve  the  doubt  : 

But  ere  the  lark  hath  left  the  lea 

I  wake,  and  I  discern  the  truth  ; 
It  is  the  trouble  of  my  youth 

That  foolish  sleep  transfers  to  thee. 


LXVIII. 


DREAM'D  there  would  be  Spring  no  more, 
That  Nature's  ancient  power  was  lost : 
The  streets  were  black  with  smoke  and  frost, 
They  chatter'd  trifles  at  the  door  : 

I  wander'd  from  the  noisy  town, 

I  found  a  wood  with  thorny  boughs  : 
I  took  the  thorns  to  bind  my  brows, 

I  wore  them  like  a  civic  crown : 


'54 


I  met  with  scoffs,  I  met  with  scorns 

From  youth  and  babe  and  hoary  hairs  : 
They  call'd  me  in  the  public  squares 

The  fool  that  wears  a  crown  of  thorns : 

They  call'd  me  fool,  they  call'd  me  child  : 
I  found  an  angel  of  the  night ; 
The  voice  was  low,  the  look  was  bright  ; 

He  look'd  upon  my  crown  and  smiled  : 

He  reach'd  the  glory  of  a  hand, 

That  seem'd  to  touch  it  into  leaf: 
The  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  grief; 

The  words  were  hard  to  understand. 


LXIX. 


T  CANNOT  see  the  features  right, 

When  on  the  gloom  I  strive  to  paint 
The  face  I  know  ;   the  hues  are  faint 

And  mix  with  hollow  masks  of  night  ; 

Cloud-towers  by  ghostly  masons  wrought, 
A  gulf  that  ever  shuts  and  gapes, 
A  hand  that  points,  and  palled  shapes 

In  shadowy  thoroughfares  of  thought ; 


i56 


And  crowds  that  stream  from  yawning  doors, 
And  shoals  of  pucker'd  faces  drive  ; 
Dark  bulks  that  tumble  half  alive, 

And  lazy  lengths  on  boundless  shores  : 

Till  all  at  once  beyond  the  will 
I  hear  a  wizard  music  roll, 
And  thro'  a  lattice  on  the  soul 

Looks  thy  fair  face  and  makes  it  still. 


157 


LXX. 


OLEEP,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance 
And  madness,  thou  hast  forged  at  last 
A  night-long  Present  of  the  Past 

In  which  we  went  thro'  summer  France. 

Hadst  thou  such  credit  with  the  soul  ? 
Then  bring  an  opiate  trebly  strong, 
Drug  down  the  blindfold  sense  of  wrong 

That  so  my  pleasure  may  be  whole ; 


'58 


While  now  we  talk  as  once  we  talk'd 

Of  men  and  minds,  the  dust  of  change, 
The  days  that  grow  to  something  strange, 

In  walking  as  of  old  we  walk'd 

Beside  the  river's  wooded  reach, 

The  fortress,  and  the  mountain  ridge, 
The  cataract  flashing  from  the  bridge, 

The  breaker  breaking  on  the  beach. 


)C 
159 


LXXI. 


ISEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
And  howlest,  issuing  out  of  night, 
With  blasts  that  blow  the  poplar  white, 
And  lash  with  storm  the  streaming  pane  ? 

Day,  when  my  crown'd  estate  begun 
To  pine  in  that  reverse  of  doom, 
Which  sicken'd  every  living  bloom, 

And  blurr'd  the  splendour  of  the  sun; 


i6o 


Who  usherest  in  the  dolorous  hour 

With  thy  quick  tears  that  make  the  rose 
Pull  sideways,  and  the  daisy  close 

Her  crimson  fringes  to  the  shower ; 

Who  might'st  have  heaved  a  windless  flame 
Up  the  deep  East,  or,  whispering,  play'd 
A  chequer-work  of  beam  and  shade 

Along  the  hills,  yet  look'd  the  same, 

As  wan,  as  chill,  as  wild  as  now ; 

Day,  mark'd  as  with  some  hideous  crime 
When  the  dark  hand  struck  down  thro'  time, 

And  cancell'd  nature's  best  :   but  thou, 


Lift  as  thou  may'st  thy  burthen'd  brows 

Thro'  clouds  that  drench  the  morning  star, 
And  whirl  the  ungarner'd  sheaf  afar, 

And  sow  the  sky  with  flying  boughs, 

And  up  thy  vault  with  roaring  sound 

Climb  thy  thick  noon,  disastrous  day  ; 
Touch  thy  dull  goal  of  joyless  gray, 

And  hide  thy  shame  beneath  the  ground. 


j  i 


162 


LXXI1. 


Oo  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be, 
How  know  I  what  had  need  of  thee, 

For  thou  wert  strong  as  thou  wert  true  ? 

The  fame  is  quench'd  that  I  foresaw, 

The  head  hath  miss'd  an  earthly  wreath 
I  curse  not  nature,  no,  nor  death  ; 

For  nothing  is  that  errs  from  law. 


163 

We  pass ;   the  path  that  each  man  trod 
Is  dim,  or  will  be  dim,  with  weeds  : 
What  fame  is  left  for  human  deeds 

In  endless  age  ?     It  rests  with  God. 

O  hollow  wraith  of  dying  fame, 

Fade  wholly,  while  the  soul  exults, 
And  self-infolds  the  large  results 

Of  force  that  would  have  forged  a  name. 


164 


LXXIII. 


\  s  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face, 

To  those  that  watch  it  more  and  more, 
A  likeness,  hardly  seen  before, 
Comes  out  —  to  some  one  of  his  race  : 


So,  dearest,  now  thy  brows  are  cold, 

I  see  thee  what  thou  art,  and  know 
Thy  likeness  to  the  wise  below, 

Thy  kindred  with  the  great  of  old. 


'65 


But  there  is  more  than  I  can  see, 
And  what  I  see  I  leave  unsaid, 
Nor  speak  it,  knowing  Death  has  made 

His  darkness  beautiful  with  thee. 


i66 


LXXIV. 


LEAVE  thy  praises  unexpress'd 
In  verse  that  brings  myself  relief, 
And  by  the  measure  of  my  grief 
I  leave  thy  greatness  to  be  guess'd  ; 

What  practice  howsoe'er  expert 

In  fitting  aptest  words  to  things, 

Or  voice  the  richest-toned  that  sings, 

Hath  power  to  give  thee  as  thou  wert  ? 


i&7 


I  care  not  in  these  fading  days 

To  raise  a  cry  that  lasts  not  long, 

And  round  thee  with  the  breeze  of  song 

To  stir  a  little  dust  of  praise. 

Thy  leaf  has  perish'd  in  the  green, 

And,  while  we  breathe  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 

Is  cold  to  all  that  might  have  been. 

So  here  shall  silence  guard  thy  fame  ; 

But  somewhere,  out  of  human  view, 
Whate'er  thy  hands  are  set  to  do 

Is  wrought  with  tumult  of  acclaim. 


i63 


LXXV. 


^ir^AKE  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend, 
And  in  a  moment  set  thy  face 
Where  all  the  starry  heavens  of  space 

Are  sharpen'd  to  a  needle's  end  ; 

Takes  wings  of  foresight ;   lighten  thro' 
The  secular  abyss  to  come, 
And  lo,  thy  deepest  lays  are  dumb 

Before  the  mouldering  of  a  yew  ; 


169 


And  if  the  matin  songs,  that  woke 
The  darkness  of  our  planet,  last, 
Thine  own  shall  wither  in  the  vast, 

Ere  half  the  lifetime  of  an  oak. 

Ere  these  have  clothed  their  branchy  bowers 
With  fifty  Mays,  thy  songs  are  vain  ; 
And  what  are  they  when  these  remain 

The  ruin'd  shells  of  hollow  towers  ? 


7o 


LXXVI. 


\\ 7HAT  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme 
To  him  who  turns  a  musing  eye 
On  songs,  and  deeds,  and  lives,  that  lie 

Foreshorten'd  in  the  tract  of  time  ? 

These  mortal  lullabies  of  pain 

May  bind  a  book,  may  line  a  box, 
May  serve  to  curl  a  maiden's  locks  ; 

Or  when  a  thousand  moons  shall  wane 


A  man  upon  a  stall  may  find, 

And,  passing,  turn  the  page  that  tells 
A  grief,  then  changed  to  something  else, 

Sung  by  a  long-forgotten  mind. 

/ 
But  what  of  that  ?      My  darken'd  ways 

Shall  ring  with  music  all  the  same; 

To  breathe  my  loss  is  more  than  fame, 
To  utter  love  more  sweet  than  praise. 


172 


LXXVII. 


\  GAIN  at  Christmas  did  we  weave 

The  holly  round  the  Christmas  hearth  ; 
The  silent  snow  possess'd  the  earth, 
And  calmly  fell  our  Christmas-eve  : 

The  yule-clog  sparkled  keen  with  frost, 
No  wing  of  wind  the  region  swept, 
But  over  all  things  brooding  slept 

The  quiet  sense  of  something  lost. 


'73 


As  in  the  winters  left  behind, 

Again  our  ancient  games  had  place, 
The  mimic  picture's  breathing  grace, 

And  dance  and  song  and  hoodman-blind. 

Who  show'd  a  token  of  distress  ? 

No  single  tear,  no  mark  of  pain  : 
O  sorrow,  then  can  sorrow  wane  ? 

O  grief,  can  grief  be  changed  to  less  ? 

O  last  regret,  regret  can  die  ! 

No,  —  mixt  with  all  this  mystic  frame, 
Her  deep  relations  are  the  same, 

But  with  long  use  her  tears  are  dry. 


LXXVIII. 


IV  /TORE  than  my  brothers  are  to  me," 
Let  this  not  vex  thee,  noble  heart ! 
I  know  thee  of  what  force  thou  art 

To  hold  the  costliest  love  in  fee. 


But  thou  and  I  are  one  in  kind, 

As  moulded  like  in  nature's  mint  ; 
And  hill  and  wood  and  field  did  print 

The  same  sweet  forms  in  either  mind. 


T75 


For  us  the  same  cold  streamlet  curl'd 

Thro'  all  his  eddying  coves  ;   the  same 
All  winds  that  roam  the  twilight  came 

In  whispers  of  the  beauteous  world. 

At  one  dear  knee  we  proffer'd  vows, 

One  lesson  from  one  book  we  learn'd, 
Ere  childhood's  flaxen  ringlet  turn'd 

To  black  and  brown  on  kindred  brows. 

And  so  my  wealth  resembles  thine, 

But  he  was  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  he  supplied  my  want  the  more 

As  his  unlikeness  fitted  mine. 


176 


LXXIX. 


TF  any  vague  desire  should  rise, 

That  holy  Death  ere  Arthur  died 
Had  moved  me  kindly  from  his  side, 

And  dropt  the  dust  on  tearless  eyes  ; 

Then  fancy  shapes,  as  fancy  can, 

The  grief  my  loss  in  him  had  wrought, 
A  grief  as  deep  as  life  or  thought, 

But  stay'd  in  peace  with  God  and  man. 


i77 

I  make  a  picture  in  the  brain; 

I  hear  the  sentence  that  he  speaks  ; 

He  bears  the  burthen  of  the  weeks, 
But  turns  his  burthen  into  gain. 

His  credit  thus  shall  set  me  free  ; 

And,  influence-rich  to  soothe  and  save, 
Unused  example  from  the  grave 

Reach  out  dead  hands  to  comfort  me. 


12 


i78 


LXXX. 


/^OULD  I  have  said  while  he  was  here, 

66  My  love  shall  now  no  further  range  ; 
There  cannot  come  a  mellower  change, 

For  now  is  love  mature  in  ear." 

Love,  then,  had  hope  of  richer  store  : 
What  end  is  here  to  my  complaint  ? 
This  haunting  whisper  makes  me  faint, 

"More  years  had  made  me  love  thee  more." 


1 79 


But  Death  returns  an  answer  sweet : 

"  My  sudden  frost  was  sudden  gain, 
And  gave  all  ripeness  to  the  grain 

It  might  have  drawn  from  after-heat." 


i8o 


LXXXI. 


T  WAGE  not  any  feud  with  Death 

For  changes  wrought  on  form  and  face  ; 

No  lower  life  that  earth's  embrace 
May  breed  with  him  can  fright  my  faith. 

Eternal  process  moving  on, 

From  state  to  state  the  spirit  walks ; 

And  these  are  but  the  shattered  stalks, 
Or  ruin'd  chrysalis  of  one. 


Nor  blame  I  Death,  because  he  bare 
The  use  of  virtue  out  of  earth  : 
I  know  transplanted  human  worth 

Will  bloom  to  profit,  otherwhere. 

For  this  alone  on  Death  I  wreak 

The  wrath  that  garners  in  my  heart ; 
He  put  our  lives  so  far  apart 

We  cannot  hear  each  other  speak. 


182 


LXXXII. 


^\IP  down  upon  the  northern  shore, 
O  sweet  new-year,  delaying  long ; 
Thou  doest  expectant  nature  wrong  ; 
Delaying  long,  delay  no  more. 

What  stays  thee  from  the  clouded  noons, 
Thy  sweetness  from  its  proper  place  ? 
Can  trouble  live  with  April  days, 

Or  sadness  in  the  summer  moons  ? 


Bring  orchis,  bring  the  foxglove  spire, 
The  little  speedwell's  darling  blue, 
Deep  tulips  dash'd  with  fiery  dew, 

Laburnums,  dropping-wells  of  fire. 

O  thou,  new-year,  delaying  long, 

Delayest  the  sorrow  in  my  blood, 
That  longs  to  burst  a  frozen  bud, 

And  flood  a  fresher  throat  with  song. 


184 


LXXXIII. 

I  contemplate  all  alone 
The  life  that  had  been  thine  below, 
And  fix  my  thoughts  on  all  the  glow 
To  which  thy  crescent  would  have  grown ; 

I  see  thee  sitting  crown'd  with  good, 
A  central  warmth  diffusing  bliss 
In  glance  and  smile,  and  clasp  and  kiss, 

On  all  the  branches  of  thy  blood  ; 


Thy  blood,  my  friend,  and  partly  mine ; 
For  now  the  day  was  drawing  on 
When  thou  shouldst  link  thy  life  with  one 

Of  mine  own  house,  and  boys  of  thine 

Had  babbled  "  Uncle"  on  my  knee; 
But  that  remorseless  iron  hour 
Made  cypress  of  her  orange-flower, 

Despair  of  Hope,  and  earth  of  thee. 

I  seem  to  meet  their  least  desire, 

To  clap  their  cheeks,  to  call  them  mine. 

I  see  their  unborn  faces  shine 
Beside  the  never-lighted  fire. 


i86 

I  see  myself  an  honour'd  guest, 

Thy  partner  in  the  flowery  walk 
Of  letters,  genial  table-talk, 

Or  deep  dispute,  and  graceful  jest  ; 

While  now  thy  prosperous  labour  fills 
The  lips  of  men  with  honest  praise, 
And  sun  by  sun  the  happy  days 

Descend  below  the  golden  hills 

With  promise  of  a  morn  as  fair  ; 

And  all  the  train  of  bounteous  hours 
Conduct  by  paths  of  growing  powers 

To  reverence  and  the  silver  hair  ; 


Till  slowly  worn  her  earthly  robe, 

Her  lavish  mission  richly  wrought, 
Leaving  great  legacies  of  thought, 

Thy  spirit  should  fail  from  off  the  globe  ; 

What  time  mine  own  might  also  flee, 

As  link'd  with  thine  in  love  and  fate, 
And,  hovering  o'er  the  dolorous  strait 

To  the  other  shore,  involved  in  thee, 

Arrive  at  last  the  blessed  goal, 

And  He  that  died  in  Holy  Land 
Would  reach  us  out  the  shining  hand, 

And  take  us  as  a  single  soul. 


What  reed  was  that  on  which  I  leant  ? 

Ah,  backward  fancy,  wherefore  wake 
The  old  bitterness  again,  and  break 

The  low  beginnings  of  content  ? 


1 89 


LXXXIV. 


^T^HIS  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall, 
I  felt  it,  when  I  sorrow'd  most, 
'T  is  better  to  have  loved  and  lost, 

Than  never  to  have  loved  at  all 


O  true  in  word,  and  tried  in  deed, 
Demanding,  so  to  bring  relief 
To  this  which  is  our  common  grief, 

What  kind  of  life  is  that  I  lead  ; 


190 

And  whether  trust  in  things  above 

Be  dimm'd  of  sorrow,  or  sustain'd  ; 
And  whether  love  for  him  have  drain'd 

My  capabilities  of  love  ; 

Your  words  have  virtue  such  as  draws 
A  faithful  answer  from  the  breast, 
Thro'  light  reproaches,  half  exprest, 

And  loyal  unto  kindly  laws. 

My  blood  an  even  tenor  kept, 

Till  on  mine  ear  this  message  falls, 
That  in  Vienna's  fatal  walls 

God's  finger  touch'd  him,  and  he  slept. 


The  great  Intelligences  fair 

That  range  above  our  mortal  state, 
In  circle  round  the  blessed  gate, 

Received  and  gave  him  welcome  there  ; 

And  led  him  thro'  the  blissful  climes, 

And  show'd  him  in  the  fountain  fresh 
All  knowledge  that  the  sons  of  flesh 

Shall  gather  in  the  cycled  times. 

But  I  remain'd,  whose  hopes  were  dim, 

Whose  life,  whose  thoughts  were  little  worth, 
To  wander  on  a  darken'd  earth, 

Where  all  things  round  me  breathed  of  him. 


192 


O  friendship,  equal-poised  control, 

O  heart,  with  kindliest  motion  warm, 

0  sacred  essence,  other  form, 
O  solemn  ghost,  O  crowned  soul ! 

Yet  none  could  better  know  than  I, 

How  much  of  act  at  human  hands 
The  sense  of  human  will  demands, 

By  which  we  dare  to  live  or  die. 

Whatever  way  my  days  decline, 

1  felt  and  feel,  tho'  left  alone, 
His  being  working  in  mine  own, 

The  footsteps  of  his  life  in  mine; 


193 


A  life  that  all  the  Muses  deck'd 

With  gifts  of  grace,  that  might  express 
All-comprehensive  tenderness, 

All-subtilising  intellect : 

And  so  my  passion  hath  not  swerved 
To  works  of  weakness,  but  I  find 
An  image  comforting  the  mind, 

And  in  my  grief  a  strength  reserved. 

Likewise  the  imaginative  woe, 

That  loved  to  handle  spiritual  strife, 
Diffused  the  shock  thro'  all  my  life, 

But  in  the  present  broke  the  blow. 


194 

My  pulses  therefore  beat  again 

For  other  friends  that  once  I  met ; 
Nor  can  it  suit  me  to  forget 

The  mighty  hopes  that  make  us  men. 

I  woo  your  love  :  I  count  it  crime 
To  mourn  for  any  overmuch  ; 
I,  the  divided  half  of  such 

A  friendship  as  had  master'd  Time ; 

Which  masters  Time  indeed,  and  is 
Eternal,  separate  from  fears  : 
The  all-assuming  months  and  years 

Can  take  no  part  away  from  this  : 


But  Summer  on  the  steaming  floods, 

And  Spring  that  swells  the  narrow  brooks, 
And  Autumn,  with  a  noise  of  rooks, 

That  gather  in  the  waning  woods, 

And  every  pulse  of  wind  and  wave 

Recalls,  in  change  of  light  or  gloom, 
My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

And  my  prime  passion  in  the  grave  : 

My  old  affection  of  the  tomb, 

A  part  of  stillness,  yearns  to  speak  : 
"  Arise,  and  get  thee  forth  and  seek 

A  friendship  for  the  years  to  come. 


196 


"  I  watch  thee  from  the  quiet  shore ; 

Thy  spirit  up  to  mine  can  reach  ; 

But  in  dear  words  of  human  speech 
We  two  communicate  no  more." 

And  I,  "  Can  clouds  of  nature  stain 
The  starry  clearness  of  the  free  ? 
How  is  it  ?      Canst  thou  feel  for  me 

Some  painless  sympathy  with  pain  ?  " 

And  lightly  does  the  whisper  fall  : 

"  'T  is  hard  for  thee  to  fathom  this ; 
I  triumph  in  conclusive  bliss, 

And  that  serene  result  of  all." 


i97 


So  hold  I  commerce  with  the  dead ; 

Or  so  methinks  the  dead  would  say ; 

Or  so  shall  grief  with  symbols  play, 
And  pining  life  be  fancy-fed. 

Now  looking  to  some  settled  end, 

That  these  things  pass,  and  I  shall  prove 
A  meeting  somewhere,  love  with  love, 

I  crave  your  pardon,  O  my  friend  ; 

If  not  so  fresh,  with  love  as  true, 
I,  clasping  brother-hands,  aver 
I  could  not,  if  I  would,  transfer 

The  whole  I  felt  for  him  to  you. 


198 

For  which  be  they  that  hold  apart 

The  promise  of  the  golden  hours  ? 
First  love,  first  friendship,  equal  powers, 

That  marry  with  the  virgin  heart. 

Still  mine,  that  cannot  but  deplore, 
That  beats  within  a  lonely  place, 
That  yet  remembers  his  embrace, 

But  at  his  footstep  leaps  no  more, 

My  heart,  tho'  widow'd,  may  not  rest 
Quite  in  the  love  of  what  is  gone, 
But  seeks  to  beat  in  time  with  one 

That  warms  another  living  breast. 


199 

Ah,  take  the  imperfect  gift  I  bring, 

Knowing  the  primrose  yet  is  dear, 
The  primrose  of  the  later  year, 

As  not  unlike  to  that  of  Spring. 


2OO 


LXXXV. 


OWEET  after  showers,  ambrosial  air, 

That  rollest  from  the  gorgeous  gloom 
Of  evening  over  brake  and  bloom 

And  meadow,  slowly  breathing  bare 

The  round  of  space,  and  rapt  below 

Thro'  all  the  dewy-tassell'd  wood, 
And  shadowing  down  the  horned  flood 

In  ripples,  fan  my  brows  and  blow 


201 


The  fever  from  my  cheek,  and  sigh 

The  full  new  life  that  feeds  thy  breath 
Throughout  my  frame,till  Doubt  and  Death, 

111  brethren,  let  the  fancy  fly 

From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas 

On  leagues  of  odour  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  orient  star 

A  hundred  spirits  whisper  "  Peace." 


202 


LXXXVI. 


PAST  beside  the  reverend  walls 

In  which  of  old  I  wore  the  gown  ; 
I  roved  at  random  thro'  the-  town, 
And  saw  the  tumult  of  the  halls; 

And  heard  once  more  in  college  fanes 

The  storm  their  high-built  organs  make, 
And  thunder-music,  rolling,  shake 

The  prophets  blazon'd  on  the  panes  ; 


203 


And  caught  once  more  the  distant  shout, 
The  measured  pulse  of  racing  oars 
Among  the  willows  ;   paced  the  shores 

And  many  a  bridge,  and  all  about 

The  same  gray  flats  again,  and  felt 

The  same,  but  not  the  same  ;   and  last 
Up  that  long  walk  of  limes  I  past 

To  see  the  rooms  in  which  he  dwelt. 

Another  name  was  on  the  door  : 

I  linger'd  ;   all  within  was  noise 

Of  songs,  and  clapping  hands,  and  boys 

That  crash'd  the  glass  and  beat  the  floor  ; 


204 


Where  once  we  held  debate,  a  band 

Of  youthful  friends,  on  mind  and  art, 
And  labour,  and  the  changing  mart, 

And  all  the  framework  of  the  land ; 

When  one  would  aim  an  arrow  fair, 

But  send  it  slackly  from  the  string ; 
And  one  would  pierce  an  outer  ring, 

And  one  an  inner,  here  and  there ; 

And  last  the  master-bowman,  he 

Would  cleave  the  mark.     A  willing  ear 
We  lent  him.      Who,  but  hung  to  hear 

The  rapt  oration  flowing  free 


205 


From  point  to  point,  with  power  and  grace 
And  music  in  the  bounds  of  law, 
To  those  conclusions  when  we  saw 

The  God  within  him  light  his  face, 

And  seem  to  lift  the  form,  and  glow 
In  azure  orbits  heavenly-wise  ; 
And  over  those  ethereal  eyes 

The  bar  of  Michael  Angelo. 


2o6 


LXXXVII. 

bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet, 
Rings  Eden  thro'  the  budded  quicks, 
O  tell  me  where  the  senses  mix 
O  tell  me  where  the  passions  meet, 

Whence  radiate  :   fierce  extremes  employ 
Thy  spirits  in  the  darkening  leaf, 
And  in  the  midmost  heart  of  grief 

Thy  passion  clasps  a  secret  joy  : 


207 

And  I --my  harp  would  prelude  woe- 
I  cannot  all  command  the  strings; 
The  glory  of  the  sum  of  things 

Will  flash  along  the  chords  and  go. 


208 


LXXXVIII. 


T^TlTCH-ELMS  that  counterchange  the  floor 
Of  this  flat  lawn  with  dusk  and  bright ; 
And  thou,  with  all  thy  breadth  and  height 

Of  foliage,  towering  sycamore  ; 

How  often,  hither  wandering  down, 

My  Arthur  found  your  shadows  fair, 
And  shook  to  all  the  liberal  air 

The  dust  and  din  and  steam  of  town  : 


209 


He  brought  an  eye  for  all  he  saw  ; 

He  mixt  in  all  our  simple  sports ; 

They  pleased  him,  fresh  from  brawling  courts 
And  dusty  purlieus  of  the  law. 

O  joy  to  him  in  this  retreat, 

Immantled  in  ambrosial  dark, 
To  drink  the  cooler  air,  and  mark 

The  landscape  winking  thro'  the  heat: 

O  sound  to  rout  the  brood  of  cares, 

The  sweep  of  scythe  in  morning  dew, 
The  gust  that  round  the  garden  flew, 

And  tumbled  half  the  mellowing  pears  ! 
H 


2IO 

O  bliss,  when  all  in  circle  drawn 

About  him,  heart  and  ear  were  fed 
To  hear  him,  as  he  lay  and  read 

The  Tuscan  poets  on  the  lawn : 

Or  in  the  all-golden  afternoon 

A  guest,  or  happy  sister,  sung, 

Or  here  she  brought  the  harp  and  flung 

A  ballad  to  the  brightening  moon : 

Nor  less  it  pleased  in  livelier  moods, 
Beyond  the  bounding  hill  to  stray, 
And  break  the  livelong  summer  day 

With  banquet  in  the  distant  woods  ; 


21  I 


Whereat  we  glanced  from  theme  to  theme, 
Discuss'd  the  books  to  love  or  hate, 
Or  touch'd  the  changes  of  the  state, 

Or  threaded  some  Socratic  dream  ; 

But  if  I  praised  the  busy  town, 

He  loved  to  rail  against  it  still, 
For  "  ground  in  yonder  social  mill, 

We  rub  each  other's  angles  down, 

"And  merge,"  he  said,  "  in  form  and  gloss 
The  picturesque  of  man  and  man." 
We  talk'd  :   the  stream  beneath  us  ran, 

The  wine-flask  lying  couch'd  in  moss, 


212 


Or  cool'd  within  the  glooming  wave ; 
And  last,  returning  from  afar, 
Before  the  crimson-circled  star 

Had  fall'n  into  her  father's  grave, 

And  brushing  ankle-deep  in  flowers, 

We  heard  behind  the  woodbine  veil 
The  milk  that  bubbled  in  the  pail, 

And  buzzings  of  the  honeyed  hours. 


213 


LXXXIX. 


T  TE  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind, 
Nor  ever  drank  the  inviolate  spring 
Where  nighest  heaven,  who  first  could  fling 

This  bitter  seed  among  mankind ; 

That  could  the  dead,  whose  dying  eyes 

Were  closed  with  wail,  resume  their  life, 
They  would  but  find  in  child  and  wife 

An  iron  welcome  when  they  rise : 


214 


'T  was  well,  indeed,  when  warm  with  wine, 
To  pledge  them  with  a  kindly  tear, 
To  talk  them  o'er,  to  wish  them  here, 

To  count  their  memories  half  divine; 

But  if  they  came  who  passed  away, 

Behold  their  brides  in  other  hands ; 
The  hard  heir  strides  about  their  lands, 

And  will  not  yield  them  for  a  day. 

Yea,  tho'  their  sons  were  none  of  these, 

Not  less  the  yet-loved  sire  would  make 
Confusion  worse  than  death,  and  shake 

The  pillars  of  domestic  peace. 


215 


Ah  dear,  but  come  thou  back  to  me  : 

Whatever  change  the  years  have  wrought, 
I  find  not  yet  one  lonely  though 

That  cries  against  my  wish  for  thee. 


2l6 


xc. 


TTl  THEN  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch, 

And  rarely  pipes  the  mounted  thrush  ; 
Or  underneath  the  barren  bush 

Flits  by  the  sea-blue  bird  of  March  ; 

Come,  wear  the  form  by  which  I  know 
Thy  spirit  in  time  among  thy  peers  ; 
The  hope  of  unaccomplished  years 

Be  large  and  lucid  round  thy  brow. 


217 


When  summer's  hourly-mellowing  change 
May  breathe,  with  many  roses  sweet, 
Upon  the  thousand  waves  of  wheat, 

That  ripple  round  the  lonely  grange  ; 

Come  :   not  in  watches  of  the  night, 

But  where  the  sunbeam  broodeth  warm, 
Come,  beauteous  in  thine  after  form, 

And  like  a  finer  light  in  light. 


2l8 


XCI. 


FF  any  vision  should  reveal 

Thy  likeness,  I  might  count  it  vain 
As  but  the  canker  of  the  brain  ; 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  made  appeal 

To  chances  where  our  lots  were  cast 
Together  in  the  days  behind, 
I  might  but  say,  I  hear  a  wind 

Of  memory  murmuring  the  past. 


219 

Yea,  tho'  it  spake  and  bared  to  view 
A  fact  within  the  coming  year ; 
And  tho'  the  months,  revolving  near, 

Should  prove  the  phantom-warning  true, 

They  might  riot  seem  thy  prophecies, 
But  spiritual  presentiments, 
And  such  refraction  of  events 

As  often  rises  ere  they  rise. 


220 


XCII. 


T  SHALL  not  see  thee.  Dare  I  say 
No  spirit  ever  brake  the  band 
That  stays  him  from  the  native  land, 

Where  first  he  walk'd  when  claspt  in  clay  ? 

No  visual  shade  of  some  one  lost, 

But  he,  the  Spirit  himself,  may  come 
Where  all  the  nerve  of  sense  is  numb  ; 

Spirit  to  Spirit,  Ghost  to  Ghost. 


221 


O,  therefore  from  thy  sightless  range 
With  gods  in  unconjectured  bliss, 
O,  from  the  distance  of  the  abyss 

Of  tenfold-complicated  change, 

Descend,  and  touch,  and  enter  ;   hear 

The  wish  too  strong  for  words  to  name ; 
That  in  this  blindness  of  the  frame 

My  Ghost  may  feel  that  thine  is  near. 


222 


XCIII. 


T  Tow  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head, 
With  what  divine  affections  bold, 
Shouldbetheman  whose  thought  wouldhold 

An  hour's  communion  with  the  dead. 


In  vain  shalt  thou,  or  any,  call 

The  spirits  from  their  golden  day, 
Except,  like  them,  thou  too  canst  say, 

My  spirit  is  at  peace  with  all. 


223 

They  haunt  the  silence  of  the  breast, 
Imaginations  calm  and  fair, 
The  memory  like  a  cloudless  air, 

The  conscience  as  a  sea  at  rest : 

But  when  the  heart  is  full  of  din, 

And  doubt  beside  the  portal  waits, 
They  can  but  listen  at  the  gates, 

And  hear  the  household  jar  within. 


224 


XCIV. 


T3  Y  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn, 
For  underfoot  the  herb  was  dry ; 
And  genial  warmth  ;   and  o'er  the  sky 

The  silvery  haze  of  summer  drawn  ; 

And  calm  that  let  the  tapers  burn 

Unwavering:   not  a  cricket  chirr'd  : 
The  brook  alone  far-off  was  heard, 

And  on  the  board  the  fluttering  urn  : 


225 


And  bats  went  round  in  fragrant  skies, 
And  wheel'd  or  lit  the  filmy  shapes 
That  haunt  the  dusk,  with  ermine  capes 

And  woolly  breasts  and  beaded  eyes ; 

While  now  we  sang  old  songs  that  peal'd 

From  knoll  to  knoll,  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field. 

But  when  those  others,  one  by  one, 

Withdrew  themselves  from  me  and  night, 
And  in  the  house  light  after  light 

Went  out,  and  I  was  all  alone, 
15 


226 


A  hunger  seized  my  heart;   I  read 

Of  that  glad  year  that  once  had  been, 

In  those  fall'n  leaves  which  kept  their  green, 

The  noble  letters  of  the  dead  : 

And  strangely  on  the  silence  broke 

The  silent-speaking  words,  and  strange 
Was  love's  dumb  cry  defying  change 

To  test  his  worth;   and  strangely  spoke 

The  faith,  the  vigour,  bold  to  dwell 

On  doubts  that  drive  the  coward  back, 
And  keen  thro'  wordy  snares  to  track 

Suggestion  to  her  inmost  cell. 


227 


So  word  by  word,  and  line  by  line, 

The  dead  man  touch'd  me  from  the  past, 
And  all  at  once  it  seem'd  at  last 

His  living  soul  was  flash'd  on  mine, 

And  mine  in  his  was  wound,  and  whirl'd 
About  empyreal  heights  of  thought, 
And  came  on  that  which  is,  and  caught 

The  deep  pulsations  of  the  world, 

Ionian  music  measuring  out 

The  steps  of  Time,  the  shocks  of  Chance, 
The  blows  of  Death.     At  length  my  trance 

Was  cancell'd,  stricken  thro'  with  doubt. 


228 


Vague  words !  but  ah,  how  hard  to  frame 
In  matter-moulded  forms  of  speech, 
Or  ev'n  for  intellect  to  reach 

Thro'  memory  that  which  I  became  : 

Till  now  the  doubtful  dusk  reveal'd 

The  knoll  once  more  where,  couch'd  at  ease, 
The  white  kine  glimmer'd,  and  the  trees 

Laid  their  dark  arms  about  the  field  : 

And,  suck'd  from  out  the  distant  gloom, 
A  breeze  began  to  tremble  o'er 
The  large  leaves  of  the  sycamore, 

And  fluctuate  all  the  still  perfume, 


229 

And  gathering  freshlier  overhead, 

Rock'd  the  full-foliaged  elms,  and  swung 
The  heavy-folded  rose,  and  flung 

The  lilies  to  and  fro,  and  said, 

"  The  dawn,  the  dawn,"  and  died  away ; 
And  East  and  West,  without  a  breath, 
Mixt  their  dim  lights,  like  life  and  death, 

To  broaden  into  boundless  day. 


230 


xcv. 


VT^OU  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn, 

Sweet-hearted,  you,  whose  light-blue  eyes 
Are  tender  over  drowning  flies, 

You  tell  me,  doubt  is  Devil-born. 

I  know  not :   one  indeed  I  knew 

In  many  a  subtle  question  versed, 
Who  touch'd  a  jarring  lyre  at  first, 

But  ever  strove  to  make  it  true  : 


23I 

Perplext  in  faith,  but  pure  in  deeds, 

At  last  he  beat  his  music  out. 

There  lives  more  faith  in  honest  doubt, 
Believe  me,  than  in  half  the  creeds. 

He  fought  his  doubts  and  gathered  strength, 
He  would  not  make  his  judgment  blind, 
He  faced  the  spectres  of  the  mind 

And  laid  them  :   thus  he  came  at  length 

To  find  a  stronger  faith  his  own  ; 

And  Power  was  with  him  in  the  night, 
Which  makes  the  darkness  and  the  light, 

And  dwells  not  in  the  light  alone, 


232 


But  in  the  darkness  and  the  cloud, 
As  over  Sinai's  peaks  of  old, 
While  Israel  made  their  gods  of  gold, 

Altho'  the  trumpet  blew  so  loud. 


233 


XCVl. 

I\/TY  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees; 
He  finds  on  misty  mountain-ground 
His  own  vast  shadow  glory-crown'd  ; 

He  sees  himself  in  all  he  sees. 

Two  partners  of  a  married  life,  - 

I  look'd  on  these,  and  thought  of  thee 
In  vastness  and  in  mystery, 

And  of  my  spirit  as  of  a  wife. 


234 


These  two  —  they  dwelt  with  eye  on  eye, 
Their  hearts  of  old  have  beat  in  tune, 
Their  meetings  made  December  June, 

Their  every  parting  was  to  die. 

Their  love  has  never  past  away; 

The  days  she  never  can  forget 
Are  earnest  that  he  loves  her  yet, 

Whate'er  the  faithless  people  say. 

Her  life  is  lone,  he  sits  apart, 

He  loves  her  yet,  she  will  not  weep, 
Tho'  rapt  in  matters  dark  and  deep 

He  seems  to  slight  her  simple  heart. 


235 

He  thrids  the  labyrinth  of  the  mind, 
He  reads  the  secret  of  the  star, 
He  seems  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 

He  looks  so  cold  :   she  thinks  him  kind. 

She  keeps  the  gift  of  years  before, 
A  wither'd  violet  is  her  bliss ; 
She  knows  not  what  his  greatness  is ; 

For  that,  for  all,  she  loves  him  more. 

For  him  she  plays,  to  him  she  sings 
Of  early  faith  and  plighted  vows  ; 
She  knows  but  matters  of  the  house, 

And  he,  he  knows  a  thousand  things. 


236 


Her  faith  is  fixt  and  cannot  move, 

She  darkly  feels  him  great  and  wise, 
She  dwells  on  him  with  faithful  eyes, 

"  I  cannot  understand:   I  love." 


237 


XCVII. 


^V^OU  leave  us  :   you  will  see  the  Rhine, 
And  those  fair  hills  I  sail'd  below, 
When  I  was  there  with  him  ;   and  go 

By  summer  belts  of  wheat  and  vine 

To  where  he  breathed  his  latest  breath, 
That  City.     All  her  splendour  seems 
No  livelier  than  the  wisp  that  gleams 

On  Lethe  in  the  eyes  of  Death. 


238 

Let  her  great  Danube  rolling  fair 

Enwind  her  isles,  unmark'd  of  me  : 
I  have  not  seen,  I  will  not  see 

Vienna ;   rather  dream  that  there, 

A  treble  darkness,  Evil  haunts 

The  birth,  the  bridal ;   friend  from  friend 
Is  oftener  parted,  fathers  bend 

Above  more  graves,  a  thousand  wants 

Gnarr  at  the  heels  of  men,  and  prey 

By  each  cold  hearth,  and  sadness  flings 
Her  shadow  on  the  blaze  of  kings  : 

And  yet  myself  have  heard  him  say, 


'239 


That  not  in  any  mother  town 

With  statelier  progress  to  and  fro 
The  double  tides  of  chariots  flow 

By  park  and  suburb  under  brown 

Of  lustier  leaves ;  nor  more  content, 
He  told  me,  lives  in  any  crowd, 
When  all  is  gay  with  lamps,  and  loud 

With  sport  and  song,  in  booth  and  tent, 

Imperial  halls,  or  open  plain  ; 

And  wheels  the  circled  dance,  and  breaks 

The  rocket  molten  into  flakes 
Of  crimson  or  in  emerald  rain. 


240 


XCVIII. 


ID  ISEST  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again, 
So  loud  with  voices  of  the  birds, 
So  thick  with  lowings  of  the  herds, 

Day,  when  I  lost  the  flower  of  men  ; 

Who  tremblest  thro'  thy  darkling  red 

On  yon  swoll'n  brook  that  bubbles  fast 
By  meadows  breathing  of  the  past, 

And  woodlands  holy  to  the  dead; 


241 


Who  murmurest  in  the  foliaged  eaves 

A  song  that  slights  the  coming  care, 
And  Autumn  laying  here  and  there 

A  fiery  finger  on  the  leaves ; 

Who  wakenest  with  thy  balmy  breath, 
To  myriads  on  the  genial  earth, 
Memories  of  bridal,  or  of  birth, 

And  unto  myriads  more,  of  death. 

O,  wheresoever  those  may  be, 

Betwixt  the  slumber  of  the  poles, 
To-day  they  count  as  kindred  souls  ; 

They  know  me  not,  but  mourn  with  me. 
16 


242 


XCIX. 


T  CLIMB  the  hill :   from  end  to  end 
Of  all  the  landscape  underneath, 
I  find  no  place  that  does  not  breathe 

Some  gracious  memory  of  my  friend ; 

No  gray  old  grange,  or  lonely  fold, 

Or  low  morass  and  whispering  reed, 
Or  simple  stile  from  mead  to  mead, 

Or  sheepwalk  up  the  windy  wold; 


243 

Nor  hoary  knoll  of  ash  and  haw 

That  hears  the  latest  linnet  trill, 
Nor  quarry  trench'd  along  the  hill, 

And  haunted  by  the  wrangling  daw  ; 

Nor  runlet  tinkling  from  the  rock ; 
Nor  pastoral  rivulet  that  swerves 
To  left  and  right  thro'  meadowy  curves, 

That  feed  the  mothers  of  the  flock  ; 

But  each  has  pleased  a  kindred  eye, 
And  each  reflects  a  kindlier  day ; 
And,  leaving  these,  to  pass  away, 

I  think  once  more  he  seems  to  die. 


244 


c. 


T  TNWATCH'D,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway, 
The  tender  blossom  flutter  down, 
Unloved,  that  beech  will  gather  brown, 

This  maple  burn  itself  away  ; 


Unloved,  the  sun-flower,  shining  fair, 

Ray  round  with  flames  her  disk  of  seed, 
And  many  a  rose-carnation  feed 

With  summer  spice  the  humming  air ; 


245 


Unloved,  by  many  a  sandy  bar, 

The  brook  shall  babble  down  the  plain, 
At  noon,  or  when  the  lesser  wain 

Is  twisting  round  the  polar  star  ; 

Uncared  for,  gird  the  windy  grove, 

And  flood  the  haunts  of  hern  and  crake  ; 
Or  into  silver  arrows  break 

The  sailing  moon  in  creek  and  cove  ; 

Till  from  the  garden  and  the  wild 

A  fresh  association  blow, 

And  year  by  year  the  landscape  grow 
Familiar  to  the  stranger's  child  ; 


246 


As  year  by  year  the  labourer  tills 

His  wonted  glebe,  or  lops  the  glades  ; 
And  year  by  year  our  memory  fades 

From  all  the  circle  of  the  hills. 


247 


CI. 


leave  the  well-beloved  place 
Where  first  we  gazed  upon  the  sky  ; 
The  roofs,  that  heard  our  earliest  cry 
Will  shelter  one  of  stranger  race. 

We  go,  but  ere  we  go  from  home, 

As  down  the  garden-walks  I  move, 
Two  spirits  of  a  diverse  love 

Contend  for  loving  masterdom. 


248 


One  whispers,  here  thy  boyhood  sung 

Long  since  its  matin  song,  and  heard 
The  low  love-language  of  the  bird 

In  native  hazels  tassel-hung. 

The  other  answers,  "  Yea,  but  here 

Thy  feet  have  strayed  in  after  hours 
With  thy  lost  friend  among  the  bowers, 

And  this  hath  made  them  trebly  dear." 

These  two  have  striven  half  the  day, 

And  each  prefers  his  separate  claim, 
Poor  rivals  in  a  losing  game, 

That  will  not  yield  each  other  way. 


249 


I  turn  to  go  :   my  feet  are  set 

To  leave  the  pleasant  fields  and  farms ; 

They  mix  in  one  another's  arms 
To  one  pure  image  of  regret. 


25° 


en. 


/^\N  that  last  night  before  we  went 

From  out  the  doors  where  I  was  bred, 
I  dream'd  a  vision  of  the  dead, 

Which  left  my  after-morn  content. 

Methought  I  dwelt  within  a  hall, 

And  maidens  with  me  :   distant  hills 
From  hidden  summits  fed  with  rills 

A  river  sliding  by  the  wall. 


25l 

The  hall  with  harp  and  carol  rang. 

They  sang  of  what  is  wise  and  good 
And  graceful.      In  the  centre  stood 

A  statue  veil'd,  to  which  they  sang  ; 

And  which,  tho'  veil'd,  was  known  to  me, 
The  shape  of  him  I  loved,  and  love 
For  ever  :   then  flew  in  a  dove 

And  brought  a  summons  from  the  sea  : 

And  when  they  learnt  that  I  must  go, 

They  wept  and  wail'd,  but  led  the  way 
To  where  a  little  shallop  lay 

At  anchor  in  the  flood  below; 


252 


And  on  by  many  a  level  mead, 

And  shadowing  bluff  that  made  the  banks, 
We  glided  winding  under  ranks 

Of  iris,  and  the  golden  reed ; 

And  still  as  vaster  grew  the  shore, 

And  roll'd  the  floods  in  grander  space, 
The  maidens  gather'd  strength  and  grace 

And  presence,  lordlier  than  before ; 

And  I  myself,  who  sat  apart 

And  watch'd  them,  wax'd  in  every  limb  ; 

I  felt  the  thews  of  Anakim, 
The  pulses  of  a  Titan's  heart  ; 


253 

As  one  would  sing  the  death  of  war, 
And  one  would  chant  the  history 
Of  that  great  race,  which  is  to  be, 

And  one  the  shaping  of  a  star; 

Until  the  forward-creeping  tides 

Began  to  foam,  and  we  to  draw 
From  deep  to  deep,  to  where  we  saw 

A  great  ship  lift  her  shining  sides. 

The  man  we  loved  was  there  on  deck, 
But  thrice  as  large  as  man  he  bent 
To  greet  us.     Up  the  side  I  went, 

And  fell  in  silence  on  his  neck : 


254 


Whereat  those  maidens  with  one  mind 

Bewail'd  their  lot ;   I  did  them  wrong : 
"  We  served  thee  here,"  they  said,  "  so  long. 

And  wilt  thou  leave  us  now  behind  ?" 

So  rapt  I  was,  they  could  not  win 

An  answer  from  my  lips,  but  he 
Replying,  "  Enter  likewise  ye 

And  go  with  us  :  "  they  enter'd  in. 

And  while  the  wind  began  to  sweep 
A  music  out  of  sheet  and  shroud, 
We  steer'd  her  toward  a  crimson  cloud 

That  landlike  slept  along  the  deep. 


2S5 


cm. 


'nr^HE  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ ; 

The  moon  is  hid,  the  night  is  still ; 

A  single  church  below  the  hill 
Is  pealing,  folded  in  the  mist. 

A  single  peal  of  bells  below, 

That  wakens  at  this  hour  of  rest 
A  single  murmur  in  the  breast, 

That  these  are  not  the  bells  I  know. 


256 


Like  strangers'  voices  here  they  sound, 
In  lands  where  not  a  memory  strays, 
Nor  landmark  breathes  of  other  days, 

But  all  is  new  unhallow'd  ground. 


257 


civ. 


'T^HIS  holly  by  the  cottage-eave, 

To-night,  ungather'd,  shall  it  stand: 
We  live  within  the  stranger's  land, 

And  strangely  falls  our  Christmas  eve. 

Our  father's  dust  is  left  alone 

And  silent  under  other  snows: 

There  in  due  time  the  woodbine  blows, 

The  violet  comes,  but  we  are  gone. 
17 


258 


No  more  shall  wayward  grief  abuse 

The  genial  hour  with  mask  and  mime ; 
For  change  of  place,  like  growth  of  time, 

Has  broke  the  bond  of  dying  use. 

Let  cares  that  petty  shadows  cast, 

By  which  our  lives  are  chiefly  proved, 
A  little  spare  the  night  I  loved, 

And  hold  it  solemn  to  the  past. 

But  let  no  footstep  beat  the  floor, 

Nor  bowl  of  wassail  mantle  warm  ; 
For  who  would  keep  an  ancient  form 

Thro'  which  the  spirit  breathes  no  more  ? 


259 


Be  neither  song,  nor  game,  nor  feast ; 

Nor  harp  be  touch'd,  nor  flute  be  blown  ; 

No  dance,  no  motion,  save  alone 
What  lightens  in  the  lucid  east 

Of  rising  worlds  by  yonder  wood. 

Long  sleeps  the  summer  in  the  seed ; 

Run  out  your  measured  arcs,  and  lead 
The  closing  cycle  rich  in  good. 


260 


cv. 

ING  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  frosty  light : 
The  year  is  dying  in  the  night ; 
Ring  out,  wild  bells,  and  let  him  die. 

Ring  out  the  old,  ring  in  the  new 

Ring,  happy  bells,  across  the  snow 
The  year  is  going,  let  him  go  ; 

Ring  out  the  false,  ring  in  the  true. 


Ring  out  the  grief  that  saps  the  mind, 

For  those  that  here  we  see  no  more; 
Ring  out  the  feud  of  rich  and  poor, 

Ring  in  redress  to  all  mankind. 

Ring  out  a  slowly  dying  cause, 

And  ancient  forms  of  party  strife ; 
Ring  in  the  nobler  modes  of  life, 

With  sweeter  manners,  purer  laws. 

Ring  out  the  want,  the  care,  the  sin, 

The  faithless  coldness  of  the  times; 
Ring  out,  ring  out  my  mournful  rhymes^ 

But  ring  the  fuller  minstrel  in. 


262 

Ring  out  false  pride  in  place  and  blood, 
The  civic  slander  and  the  spite ; 
Ring  in  the  love  of  truth  and  right, 

Ring  in  the  common  love  of  good. 

Ring  out  old  shapes  of  foul  disease  ; 

Ring  out  the  narrowing  lust  of  gold  ; 

Ring  out  the  thousand  wars  of  old, 
Ring  in  the  thousand  years  of  peace. 

Ring  in  the  valiant  man  and  free, 

The  larger  heart,  the  kindlier  hand ; 
Ring  out  the  darkness  of  the  land, 

Ring  in  the  Christ  that  is  to  be. 


263 


CVI. 


FT  is  the  day  when  he  was  born, 
A  bitter  day  that  early  sank 
Behind  a  purple-frosty  bank 

Of  vapour,  leaving  night  forlorn. 

The  time  admits  not  flowers  or  leaves 

To  deck  the  banquet.      Fiercely  flies 
The  blast  of  North  and  East,  and  ice 

Makes  daggers  at  the  sharpen'd  eaves, 


264 


And  bristles  all  the  brakes  and  thorns 
To  yon  hard  crescent,  as  she  hangs 
Above  the  wood  which  grides  and  clangs 

Its  leafless  ribs  and  iron  horns 

Together,  in  the  drifts  that  pass 

To  darken  on  the  rolling  brine 

That  breaks  the  coast.      But  fetch  the  wine, 

Arrange  the  board  and  brim  the  glass ; 

Bring  in  great  logs  and  let  them  lie, 

To  make  a  solid  core  of  heat ; 

Be  cheerful-minded,  talk  and  treat 
Of  all  things  ev'n  as  he  were  by ; 


265 

We  keep  the  day.  With  festal  cheer, 
With  books  and  music,  surely  we 
Will  drink  to  him  whate'er  he  be, 

And  sing  the  songs  he  loved  to  hear. 


266 


CVII. 


T  WILL  not  shut  me  from  my  kind, 
And,  lest  I  stiffen  into  stone, 
I  will  not  eat  my  heart  alone, 

Nor  feed  with  sighs  a  passing  wind  : 

What  profit  lies  in  barren  faith, 

And  vacant  yearning,  tho'  with  might 
To  scale  the  heaven's  highest  height, 

Or  dive  below  the  wells  of  Death  ? 


267 


What  find  I  in  the  highest  place, 

But  mine  own  phantom  chanting  hymns  r 
And  on  the  depths  of  death  there  swims 

The  reflex  of  a  human  face. 

I  '11  rather  take  what  fruit  may  be 
Of  sorrow  under  human  skies  : 
'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise, 

Whatever  wisdom  sleep  with  thee. 


268 


CVIII. 


T  T  EART-AFFLUENCE  in  discursive  talk 

From  household  fountains  never  dry  ; 
The  critic  clearness  of  an  eye, 

That  saw  thro'  all  the  Muses'  walk  ; 


Seraphic  intellect  and  force 

To  seize  and  throw  the  doubts  of  man  ; 

Impassion'd  logic,  which  outran 
The  hearer  in  its  fiery  course ; 


269 

High  nature  amorous  of  the  good, 

But  touch'd  with  no  ascetic  gloom  ; 
And  passion  pure  in  snowy  bloom 

Thro'  all  the  years  of  April  blood; 

A  love  of  freedom  rarely  felt, 

Of  freedom  in  her  regal  seat 

Of  England  ;   not  the  schoolboy  heat, 

The  blind  hysterics  of  the  Celt  ; 

And  manhood  fused  with  female  grace 

In  such  a  sort,  the  child  would  twine 
A  trustful  hand,  unask'd,  in  thine, 

And  find  his  comfort  in  thy  face ; 


2/0 


All  these  have  been,  and  thee  mine  eyes 

Have  look'd  on  :   if  they  look'd  in  vain, 
My  shame  is  greater  who  remain, 

Nor  let  thy  wisdom  make  me  wise. 


27 1 


CIX. 


s  • 


HY  converse  drew  us  with  delight, 
The  men  of  rathe  and  riper  years 
The  feeble  soul,  a  haunt  of  fears, 
Forgot  his  weakness  in  thy  sight. 


On  thee  the  loyal-hearted  hung, 

The  proud  was  half  disarm'd  of  pride, 
Nor  cared  the  serpent  at  thy  side 

To  flicker  with  his  double  tongue. 


272 


The  stern  were  mild  when  thou  wert  by, 
The  flippant  put  himself  to  school 
And  heard  thee,  and  the  brazen  fool 

Was  soften'd,  and  he  knew  not  why  ; 

While  I,  thy  dearest,  sat  apart, 

And  felt  thy  triumph  was  as  mine; 

And  loved  them  more,  that  they  were  thine, 

The  graceful  tact,  the  Christian  art; 

Not  mine  the  sweetness  or  the  skill, 

But  mine  the  love  that  will  not  tire, 
And,  born  of  love,  the  vague  desire 

That  spurs  an  imitative  will. 


273 


ex. 


P%E  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down 
Along  the  scale  of  ranks,  thro'  all, 
To  him  who  grasps  a  golden  ball, 
By  blood  a  king,  at  heart  a  clown  ; 


The  churl  in  spirit,  howe'er  he  veil 

His  want  in  forms  for  fashion's  sake, 
Will  let  his  coltish  nature  break 

At  seasons  thro'  the  gilded  pale  : 
18 


2/4 

For  who  can  always  act?  but  he, 

To  whom  a  thousand  memories  call, 
Not  being  less  but  more  than  all 

The  gentleness  he  seem'd  to  be, 

Best  seem'd  the  thing  he  was,  and  join'd 
Each  office  of  the  social  hour 
To  noble  manners,  as  the  flower 

And  native  growth  of  noble  mind  ; 

Nor  ever  narrowness  or  spite, 

Or  villain  fancy  fleeting  by, 
Drew  in  the  expression  of  an  eye, 

Where  God  and  Nature  met  in  light  ; 


275 


And  thus  he  bore  without  abuse 

The  grand  old  name  of  gentleman, 
Defamed  by  every  charlatan, 

And  soil'd  with  all  ignoble  use. 


276 


CXI. 


T  TlGH  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less, 

That  I,  who  gaze  with  temperate  eyes 
On  glorious  insufficiencies, 

Set  light  by  narrower  perfectness. 

But  thou,  that  fillest  all  the  room 
Of  all  my  love,  art  reason  why 
I  seem  to  cast  a  careless  eye 

On  souls,  the  lesser  lords  of  doom. 


277 


For  what  wert  thou  ?  some  novel  power 
Sprang  up  for  ever  at  a  touch, 
And  hope  could  never  hope  too  much, 

In  watching  thee  from  hour  to  hour, 

Large  elements  in  order  brought, 

And  tracts  of  calm  from  tempest  made, 
And  world-wide  fluctuation  sway'd 

In  vassal  tides  that  follow'd  thought. 


278 


CXII. 


'^  |^  IS  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise  ; 

Yet  how  much  wisdom  sleeps  with  thee 
Which  not  alone  had  guided  me, 

But  served  the  seasons  that  may  rise ; 

For  can  I  doubt  who  knew  thee  keen 
In  intellect,  with  force  and  skill 
To  strive,  to  fashion,  to  fulfil  - 

I  doubt  not  what  thou  wouldst  have  been  : 


279 

A  life  in  civic  action  warm, 

A  soul  on  highest  mission  sent, 
A  potent  voice  of  Parliament, 

A  pillar  steadfast  in  the  storm, 

Should  licensed  boldness  gather  force, 

Becoming,  when  the  time  has  birth, 
A  lever  to  uplift  the  earth 

And  roll  it  in  another  course, 

With  thousand  shocks  that  come  and  go, 
With  agonies,  with  energies, 
With  overthrowings,  and  with  cries, 

And  undulations  to  and  fro. 


280 


CXIII. 


T  It  7HO  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     Who  shall  rail 
Against  her  beauty  ?      May  she  mix 
With  men  and  prosper!     Who  shall  fix 

Her  pillars  ?     Let  her  work  prevail. 

But  on  her  forehead  sits  a  fire: 

She  sets  her  forward  countenance 
And  leaps  into  the  future  chance, 

Submitting  all  things  to  desire. 


28l 


Half-grown  as  yet,  a  child,  and  vain, 
She  cannot  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
What  is  she,  cut  from  love  and  faith, 

But  some  wild  Pallas  from  the  brain 

Of  Demons  ?  fiery-hot  to  burst 

All  barriers  in  her  onward  race 

For  power.      Let  her  know  her  place ; 

She  is  the  second,  not  the  first. 

A  higher  hand  must  make  her  mild, 
If  all  be  not  in  vain ;  and  guide 
Her  footsteps,  moving  side  by  side 

With  wisdom,  like  the  younger  child: 


282 

For  she  is  earthly  of  the  mind, 

But  Wisdom  heavenly  of  the  soul. 
O  friend,  who  earnest  to  thy  goal 

So  early,  leaving  me  behind, 

I  would  the  great  world  grew  like  thee, 
Who  grewest  not  alone  in  power 
And  knowledge,  but  by  year  and  hour 

In  reverence  and  in  charity. 


283 


CXIV. 


IV  Tow  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow, 
Now  bourgeons  every  maze  of  quick 
About  the  flowering  squares,  and  thick 

By  ashen  roots  the  violets  blow. 

Now  rings  the  woodland  loud  and  long, 
The  distance  takes  a  lovelier  hue, 
And  drown'd  in  yonder  living  blue 

The  lark  becomes  a  sightless  song. 


284 

Now  dance  the  lights  on  lawn  and  lea, 
The  flocks  are  whiter  down  the  vale, 
And  milkier  every  milky  sail 

On  winding  stream  or  distant  sea ; 

Where  now  the  seamew  pipes,  or  dives 
In  yonder  greening  gleam,  and  fly 
The  happy  birds,  that  change  their  sky 

To  build  and  brood;   that  live  their  lives 

From  land  to  land;  and  in  my  breast 
Spring  wakens  too ;  and  my  regret 
Becomes  an  April  violet, 

And  buds  and  blossoms  like  the  rest. 


285 


cxv. 

Ts  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time 

That  keenlier  in  sweet  April  wakes, 
And  meets  the  year,  and  gives  and  takes 

The  colours  of  the  crescent  prime  ? 

Not  all :  the  songs,  the  stirring  air, 
The  life  re-orient  out  of  dust, 
Cry  thro'  the  sense  to  hearten  trust 

In  that  which  made  the  world  so  fair. 


286 


Not  all  regret :   the  face  will  shine 
Upon  me,  while  I  muse  alone  ; 
And  that  dear  voice  I  once  have  known 

Still  speak  to  me  of  me  and  mine  : 

Yet  less  of  sorrow  lives  in  me 

For  days  of  happy  commune  dead  ; 
Less  yearning  for  the  friendship  fled, 

Than  some  strong  bond  which  is  to  be. 


287 


CXVI. 

/^\  DAYS  and  hours,  your  work  is  this, 
To  hold  me  from  my  proper  place, 
A  little  while  from  his  embrace, 

For  fuller  gain  of  after  bliss  ; 

That  out  of  distance  might  ensue 

Desire  of  nearness  doubly  sweet  ; 
And  unto  meeting  when  we  meet, 

Delight  a  hundred-fold  accrue, 


288 

For  every  grain  of  sand  that  runs-, 

And  every  span  of  shade  that  steals, 
And  every  kiss  of  toothed  wheels, 

And  all  the  courses  of  the  suns. 


289 


CXVII. 

/CONTEMPLATE  all  this  work  of  Time, 
The  giant  labouring  in  his  youth  ; 
Nor  dream  of  human  love  and  truth, 

As  dying  Nature's  earth  and  lime; 

But  trust  that  those  we  call  the  dead 
Are  breathers  of  an  ampler  day 
For  ever  nobler  ends.  They  say, 

The  solid  earth  whereon  we  tread 
19 


290 


In  tracts  of  fluent  heat  began, 

And  grew  to  seeming-random  forms, 
The  seeming  prey  of  cyclic  storms, 

Till  at  the  last  arose  the  man ; 

Who  throve  and  branch'd  from  clime  to  clime, 
The  herald  of  a  higher  race, 
And  of  himself  in  higher  place 

If  so  he  type  this  work  of  time 

Within  himself,  from  more  to  more  ; 
Or,  crown'd  with  attributes  of  woe 
Like  glories,  move  his  course,  and  show 

That  life  is  not  as  idle  ore, 


291 


But  iron  dug  from  central  gloom, 

And  heated  hot  with  burning  fears, 
And  dipt  in  baths  of  hissing  tears, 

And  batter'd  with  the  shocks  of  doom 

To  shape  and  use.      Arise  and  fly 

The  reeling  Faun,  the  sensual  feast ; 
Move  upward,  working  out  the  beast, 

And  let  the  ape  and  tiger  die. 


292 


CXVIII. 


~"\OORS,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat 
So  quickly,  not  as  one  that  weeps 
I  come  once  more ;   the  city  sleeps  ; 
I  smell  the  meadow  in  the  street ; 

I  hear  a  chirp  of  birds ;   I  see 

Betwixt  the  black  fronts  long-withdrawn 
A  light-blue  lane  of  early  dawn, 

And  think  of  early  days  and  thee, 


293 


And  bless  thee,  for  thy  lips  are  bland, 

And  bright  the  friendship  of  thine  eye ; 
And  in  my  thoughts  with  scarce  a  sigh 

I  take  the  pressure  of  thine  hand. 


294 


CXIX. 


T  TRUST  I  have  not  wasted  breath  : 
I  think  we  are  not  wholly  brain, 
Magnetic  mockeries;   not  in  vain, 

Like  Paul  with  beasts,  I  fought  with  Death  ; 

Not  only  cunning  casts  in  clay  : 

Let  Science    prove  we  are,  and  then 
What  matters  Science  unto  men, 

At  least  to  me?     I  would  not  stay. 


295 


Let  him,  the  wiser  man  who  springs 

Hereafter,  up  from  childhood  shape 
His  action  like  the  greater  ape, 

But  I  was  born  to  other  things. 


296 


cxx. 


OAD  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun, 

And  ready,  thou,  to  die  with  him, 
Thou  watchest  all  things  ever  dim 

And  dimmer,  and  a  glory  done  : 

The  team  is  loosen'd  from  the  wain, 

The  boat  is  drawn  upon  the  shore  ; 
Thou  listenest  to  the  closing  door, 

And  life  is  darken'd  in  the  brain. 


297 


Bright  Phosphor,  fresher  for  the  night, 

By  thee  the  world's  great  work  is  heard 
Beginning,  and  the  wakeful  bird  : 

Behind  thee  comes  the  greater  light ; 

The  market  boat  is  on  the  stream, 

And  voices  hail  it  from  the  brink  ; 
Thou  hear'st  the  village  hammer  clink, 

And  see'st  the  moving  of  the  team. 

Sweet  Hesper-Phosphor,  double  name 
For  what  is  one,  the  first,  the  last, 
Thou,  like  my  present  and  my  past, 

Thy  place  is  changed ;  thou  art  the  same. 


298 


CXXI. 


o 


H,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then, 
While  I  rose  up  against  my  doom, 
And  yearn'd  to  burst  the  folded  gloom, 
To  bare  the  eternal  Heavens  again, 

To  feel  once  more,  in  placid  awe, 
The  strong  imagination  roll 
A  sphere  of  stars  about  my  soul, 

In  all  her  motion  one  with  law ; 


299 

If  thou  wert  with  me,  and  the  grave 
Divide  us  not,  be  with  me  now, 
And  enter  in  at  breast  and  brow, 

Till  all  my  blood,  a  fuller  wave, 

Be  quicken'd  with  a  livelier  breath, 
And  like  an  inconsiderate  boy, 
As  in  the  former  flash  of  joy, 

I  slip  the  thoughts  of  life  and  death  : 

And  all  the  breeze  of  Fancy  blows, 

And  every  dew-drop  paints  a  bow, 
The  wizard  lightnings  deeply  glow, 

And  every  thought  breaks  out  a  rose. 


3oo 


CXXII. 


^  I  ^HERE  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree. 

O  earth,  what  changes  thou  hast  seen  ! 

There  where  the  long  street  roars,  hath  been 
The  stillness  of  the  central  sea. 


The  hills  are  shadows,  and  they  flow 

From  form  to  form,  and  nothing  stands ; 
They  melt  like  mist,  the  solid  lands, 

Like  clouds  they  shape  themselves  and  go. 


3oi 


But  in  my  spirit  will  I  dwell, 

And  dream  my  dream,  and  hold  it  true ; 

For  tho'  my  lips  may  breathe  adieu, 
I  cannot  think  the  thing  farewell. 


7O2 


CXXIII. 


'H  P^HAT  which  w(e  dare  invoke  to  bless ; 

Our  dearest  faith ;   our  ghastliest  doubt  -, 
He,  They,  One,  All  ;   within,  without  ; 

The  Power  in  darkness  whom  we  guess  ; 

I  found  Him  not  in  world  or  sun, 
Or  eagle's  wing,  or  insect's  eye ; 
Nor  thro'  the  questions  men  may  try, 

The  petty  cobwebs  we  have  spun : 


,    303 

If  e'er,  when  faith  had  fall'n  asleep, 

I  heard  a  voice,  "  Believe  no  more," 
And  heard  an  ever-breaking  shore 

That  tumbled  in  the  Godless  deep ; 

A  warmth  within  the  breast  would  melt 
The  freezing  reason's  colder  part, 
And  like  a  man  in  wrath  the  heart 

Stood  up  and  answer'd,  "I  have  felt." 

No,  like  a  child  in  doubt  and  fear  : 

But  that  blind  clamour  made  me  wise ; 
Then  was  I  as  a  child  that  cries, 

But,  crying,  knows  his  father  near; 


3°4 

And  what  I  am  beheld  again 

What  is,  and  no  man  understands ; 

And  out  of  darkness  came  the  hands 
That  reach  thro'  nature,  moulding  men. 


3°5 


CXXIV. 

\\  7HATEVER  I  have  said  or  sung, 

Some  bitter  notes  my  harp  would  give, 
Yea,  tho'  there  often  seem'd  to  live 

A  contradiction  on  the  tongue, 

Yet  Hope  had  never  lost  her  youth  ; 

She  did  but  look  thro'  dimmer  eyes ; 

Or  Love  but  play'd  with  gracious  lies 
Because  he  felt  so  fix'd  in  truth  : 

20 


306 


And  if  the  song  were  full  of  care, 

He  breathed  the  spirit  of  the  song; 
And  if  the  words  were  sweet  and  strong, 

He  set  his  royal  signet  there ; 

Abiding  with  me  till  I  sail 

To  seek  thee  on  the  mystic  deeps, 
And  this  electric  force,  that  keeps 

A  thousand  pulses  dancing,  fail. 


3°7 


cxxv. 


T    OVE  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King, 
And  in  his  presence  I  attend 
To  hear  the  tidings  of  my  friend, 

Which  every  hour  his  couriers  bring. 

Love  is  and  was  my  King  and  Lord, 
And  will  be,  tho'  as  yet  I  keep 
Within  his  court  on  earth,  and  sleep 

Encompass'd  by  his  faithful  guard, 


3o8 


And  hear  at  times  a  sentinel 

Who  moves  about  from  place  to  place, 
And  whispers  to  the  worlds  of  space, 

In  the  deep  night,  that  all  is  well. 


3°9 


CXXVI. 


A  ND  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form 
Be  sunder'd  in  the  night  of  fear  ; 
Well  roars  the  storm  to  those  that  hear 
A  deeper  voice  across  the  storm, 

Proclaiming  social  truth  shall  spread, 
And  justice,  ev'n  tho'  thrice  again 
The  red  fool-fury  of  the  Seine 

Should  pile  her  barricades  with  dead. 


3io 

But  ill  for  him  that  wears  a  crown, 
And  him,  the  lazar,  in  his  rags  : 
They  tremble,  the  sustaining  crags  ; 

The  spires  of  ice  are  toppled  down, 

And  molten  up,  and  roar  in  flood  ; 

The  fortress  crashes  from  on  high, 
The  brute  earth  lightens  to  the  sky, 

And  the  great  ^Eon  sinks  in  blood, 

And  compass'd  by  the  fires  of  Hell; 

While  thou,  dear  spirit,  happy  star, 
O'erlook'st  the  tumult  from  afar, 

And  smilest,  knowing  all  is  well. 


311 


CXXVII. 


'nr^HE  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings, 
Unpalsied  when  we  met  with  Death, 
Is  comrade  of  the  lesser  faith 

That  sees  the  course  of  human  things. 

No  doubt  vast  eddies  in  the  flood 

Of  onward  time  shall  yet  be  made, 
And  throned  races  may  degrade; 

Yet  O  ye  mysteries  of  good, 


3I2 


Wild  Hours  that  fly  with  Hope  and  Fear, 
If  all  your  office  had  to  do 
With  old  results  that  look  like  new ; 

If  this  were  all  your  mission  here, 

To  draw,  to  sheathe  a  useless  sword, 

To  fool  the  crowd  with  glorious  lies, 
To  cleave  a  creed  in  sects  and  cries, 

To  change  the  bearing  of  a  word, 

To  shift  an  arbitrary  power, 

To  cramp  the  student  at  his  desk, 
To  make  old  bareness  picturesque 

And  tuft  with  grass  a  feudal  tower; 


Why  then  my  scorn  might  well  descend 
On  you  and  yours.     I  see  in  part 
That  all,  as  in  some  piece  of  art, 

Is  toil  cooperant  to  an  end. 


3H 


CXXVIII. 


~"\EAR  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire, 
So  far,  so  near  in  woe  and  weal ; 
O  loved  the  most,  when  most  I  feel 
There  is  a  lower  and  a  higher ; 

Known  and  unknown  ;   human,  divine ; 

Sweet  human  hand  and  lips  and  eye  ; 

Dear  heavenly  friend  that  canst  not  die, 
Mine,  mine,  for  ever,  ever  mine ; 


Strange  friend,  past,  present,  and  to  be ; 

Love  deeplier,  darklier  understood  ; 

Behold,  I  dream  a  dream  of  good, 
And  mingle  all  the  world  with  thee. 


316 


CXXIX. 


^I^HY  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air  ; 

I  hear  thee  where  the  waters  run  ; 

Thou  standest  in  the  rising  sun, 
And  in  the  setting  thou  art  fair. 

What  art  thou  then  r  I  cannot  guess  ; 
But  tho'  I  seem  in  star  and  flower 
To  feel  thee  some  diffusive  power, 

I  do  not  therefore  love  thee  less  : 


My  love  involves  the  love  before ; 

My  love  is  vaster  passion  now  ; 

Tho'  mix'd  with  God  and  Nature  thou, 
I  seem  to  love  thee  more  and  more. 

Far  off  thou  art,  but  ever  nigh  ; 

I  have  thee  still,  and  I  rejoice  ; 

I  prosper,  circled  with  thy  voice  ; 
I  shall  not  lose  thee  tho'  I  die. 


3i8 


cxxx. 


/^\  LIVING  will  that  shalt  endure 

When  all  that  seems  shall  suffer  shock, 
Rise  in  the  spiritual  rock, 

Flow  thro'  our  deeds  and  make  them  pure, 

That  we  may  lift  from  out  of  dust 
A  voice  as  unto  him  that  hears, 
A  cry  above  the  conquer'd  years 

To  one  that  with  us  works,  and  trust, 


3r9 

With  faith  that  comes  of  self-control, 

The  truths  that  never  can  be  proved 
Until  we  close  with  all  we  loved, 

And  all  we  flow  from,  soul  in  soul. 


32I 


/^\  TRUE  and  tried,  so  well  and  long, 
Demand  not  thou  a  marriage  lay ; 
In  that  it  is  thy  marriage  day 

Is  music  more  than  any  song. 

Nor  have  I  felt  so  much  of  bliss 

Since  first  he  told  me  that  he  loved 
A  daughter  of  our  house  ;   nor  proved 

Since  that  dark  day  a  day  like  this; 


21 


322 


Tho'  I  since  then  have  number'd  o'er 

Some  thrice  threeyears:  they  went  andcame, 
Remade  the  blood  and  changed  the  frame, 

And  yet  is  love  not  less,  but  more ; 

No  longer  caring  to  embalm 

In  dying  songs  a  dead  regret, 

But  like  a  statue  solid-set, 
And  moulded  in  colossal  calm. 

Regret  is  dead,  but  love  is  more 

Than  in  the  summers  that  are  flown, 
For  I  myself  with  these  have  grown 

To  something  greater  than  before  ; 


323 

Which  makes  appear  the  songs  I  made 
As  echoes  out  of  weaker  times, 
As  half  but  idle  brawling  rhymes, 

The  sport  of  random  sun  and  shade. 

But  where  is  she,  the  bridal  flower, 

That  must  be  made  a  wife  ere  noon  ? 
She  enters,  glowing  like  the  moon 

Of  Eden  on  its  bridal  bower  : 

On  me  she  bends  her  blissful  eyes, 

And  then  on  thee ;   they  meet  thy  look 
And  brighten  like  the  star  that  shook 

Betwixt  the  palms  of  paradise. 


324 


O  when  her  life  was  yet  in  bud, 

He  too  foretold  the  perfect  rose. 

For  thee  she  grew,  for  thee  she  grows 

For  ever,  and  as  fair  as  good. 

And  thou  art  worthy  ;  full  of  power  ; 
As  gentle ;  liberal-minded,  great, 
Consistent ;  wearing  all  that  weight 

Of  learning  lightly  like  a  flower. 

But  now  set  out  :   the  noon  is  near, 
And  I  must  give  away  the  bride  ; 
She  fears  not,  or  with  thee  beside 

And  me  behind  her,  will  not  fear  : 


325 


For  I  that  danced  her  on  my  knee, 

That  watch'd  her  on  her  nurse's  arm, 
That  shielded  all  her  life  from  harm,  . 

At  last  must  part  with  her  to  thee ; 

Now  waiting  to  be  made  a  wife, 

Her  feet,  my  darling,  on  the  dead ; 
Their  pensive  tablets  round  her  head, 

And  the  most  living  words  of  life 

Breathed  in  her  ear.      The  ring  is  on, 

The  "wilt  thou  "  answer'd,  and  again 
The  "  wilt  thou  "  ask'd,  till  out  of  twain 

Her  sweet  "  I  will  "  has  made  ye  one. 


326 


Now  sign  your  names,  which  shall  be  read, 
Mute  symbols  of  a  joyful  morn, 
By  village  eyes  as  yet  unborn  ; 

The  names  are  sign'd,  and  overhead  • 

Begins  the  clash  and  clang  that  tells 

The  joy  to  every  wandering  breeze  ; 
The  blind  wall  rocks,  and  on  the  trees 

The  dead  leaf  trembles  to  the  bells. 

O  happy  hour,  and  happier  hours 

Await  them.     Many  a  merry  face 
Salutes  them  --  maidens  of  the  place, 

That  pelt  us  in  the  porch  with  flowers. 


O  happy  hour,  behold  the  bride 

With  him  to  whom  her  hand  I  gave. 
They  leave  the  porch,  they  pass  the  grave 

That  has  to-day  its  sunny  side. 

To-day  the  grave  is  bright  for  me, 

For  them  the  light  of  life  increased, 
Who  stay  to  share  the  morning  feast, 

Who  rest  to-night  beside  the  sea. 

Let  all  my  genial  spirits  advance 

To  meet  and  greet  a  whiter  sun; 
My  drooping  memory  will  not  shun 

The  foaming  grape  of  eastern  France. 


328 


It  circles  round,  and  fancy  plays, 

And  hearts  are  warm'd  and  faces  bloom, 
As  drinking  health  to  bride  and  groom 

We  wish  them  store  of  happy  days. 

Nor  count  me  all  to  blame  if  I 
Conjecture  of  a  stiller  guest, 
Perchance,  perchance,  among  the  rest, 

And,  tho'  in  silence,  wishing  joy. 

But  they  must  go,  the  time  draws  on, 

And  those  white-favour'd  horses  wait  ; 
They  rise,  but  linger;   it  is  late; 

Farewell,  we  kiss,  and  they  are  gone. 


329 

A  shade  falls  on  us  like  the  dark 

From  little  cloudlets  on  the  grass, 
But  sweeps  away  as  out  we  pass 

To  range  the  woods,  to  roam  the  park, 

Discussing  how  their  courtship  grew, 
And  talk  of  others  that  are  wed, 
And  how  she  look'd,  and  what  he  said, 

And  back  we  come  at  fall  of  dew. 

Again  the  feast,  the  speech,  the  glee, 

The  shade  of  passing  thought,  the  wealth 
Of  words  and  wit,  the  double  health, 

The  crowning  cup,  the  three-times-three, 


33° 


And  last  the  dance;  —  till  I  retire: 

Dumb  is  that  tower  which  spake  so  loud, 
And  high  in  heaven  the  streaming  cloud, 

And  on  the  downs  a  rising  fire  : 

And  rise,  O  moon,  from  yonder  down, 
Till  over  down  and  over  dale 
All  night  the  shining  vapour  sail 

And  pass  the  silent-lighted  town, 

The  white-faced  halls,  the  glancing  rills, 
And  catch  at  every  mountain  head, 
And  o'er  the  friths  that  branch  and  spread 

Their  sleeping  silver  thro'  the  hills  ; 


331 


And  touch  with  shade  the  bridal  doors, 

With  tender  gloom  the  roof,  the  wall ; 
And  breaking  let  the  splendour  fall 

To  spangle  all  the  happy  shores 

By  which  they  rest,  and  ocean  sounds, 
And,  star  and  system  rolling  past, 
A  soul  shall  draw  from  out  the  vast 

And  strike  his  being  into  bounds, 

And,  moved  thro'  life  of  lower  phase, 
Result  in  man,  be  born  and  think, 
And  act  and  love,  a  closer  link 

Betwixt  us  and  the  crowning  race 


33 


Of  those  that,  eye  to  eye,  shall  look 

On  knowledge  ;   under  whose  command 
Is  Earth  and  Earth's,  and  in  their  hand 

Is  Nature  like  an  open  book ; 

No  longer  half-akin  to  brute, 

For  all  we  thought  and  loved  and  did, 
And  hoped,  and  suffer'd,  is  but  seed 

Of  what  in  them  is  flower  and  fruit ; 

Whereof  the  man,  that  with  me  trod 
This  planet,  was  a  noble  type 
Appearing  ere  the  times  were  ripe, 

That  friend  of  mine  who  lives  in  God, 


333 

That  God,  which  ever  lives  and  loves, 
One  God,  one  law,  one  element, 
And  one  far-off  divine  event, 

To  which  the  whole  creation  moves. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


INDEX    OF    FIRST    LINES. 


PAGE 


Again  at  Christmas  did  we  weave    .  .  .  .172 

A  happy  lover  who  has  come  ...  23 

And  all  is  well,  tho'  faith  and  form  .  .  .      309 

And  was  the  day  of  my  delight  .  .  .             58 

As  sometimes  in  a  dead  man's  face  .  .  .164 

Be  near  me  when  my  light  is  low  .  .  .          113 

By  night  we  linger'd  on  the  lawn  .  .  .      224 

Calm  is  the  morn  without  a  sound  ...  30 

Contemplate  all  this  work  of  Time  .  .  .      289 

Could  I  have  said  while  he  was  here  .  .           178 

Could  we  forget  the  widow'd  hour  .  .  '9* 

Dark  house,  by  which  once  more  I  stand  .  .  21 

Dear  friend,  far  off,  my  lost  desire  .  .  .314 


338 


Dip  down  upon  the  northern  shore      .  .          .          182 

Doors,  where  my  heart  was  used  to  beat  .          .      292 

Dost  thou  look  back  on  what  hath  been  .          .           142 

Do  we  indeed  desire  the  dead           .          .  .                115 

Fair  ship,  that  from  the  Italian  shore  .          .            26 

From  art,  from  nature,  from  the  schools  .          .      1 1 1 

Heart-affluence  in  discursive  talk           .  .          .          268 

He  past;  a  soul  of  nobler  tone         .          .  .          .134 

Her  eyes  are  homes  of  silent  prayer      .  .          .            75 

He  tasted  love  with  half  his  mind             .  .          .213 

High  wisdom  holds  my  wisdom  less     .  .          .           174 

How  fares  it  with  the  happy  dead?           .  .                101 

How  many  a  father  have  I  seen             .  .          .          119 

How  pure  at  heart  and  sound  in  head       .  .          .      222 

I  cannot  love  thee  as  I  ought        .          .  .          .           117 

I  cannot  see  the  features  right           .          .  .          -155 

I  climb  the  hill :   from  end  to  end         .  .          .          242 

I  dream'd  there  would  be  Spring  no  more  .                153 

I  envy  not  in  any  moods     .....  64 

If  any  vague  desire  should  rise          .          .  .          .176 

If  any  vision  should  reveal            .          .  .          .          218 

If,  in  thy  second  state  sublime          .          .  .          .136 


339 


If  one  should  bring  me  this  report        .          .  36 

If  Sleep  and  Death  be  truly  one       ....  99 

If  these  brief  lays,  of  Sorrow  born        .          .          .  109 

I  hear  the  noise  about  thy  keel         ....  28 

I  held  it  truth,  with  him  who  sings      ...  7 

I  know  that  this  was  Life,  —  the  track     ...  60 

I  leave  thy  praises  unexpress'd     .          .          .          .  166 
In  those  sad  words  I  took  farewell             .          .          .130 

I  past  beside  the  reverend  walls             .          .          .  202 

I  shall  not  see  thee.      Dare  I  say                .          .          .  220 

I  sing  to  him  that  rests  below      ....  50 

Is  it,  then,  regret  for  buried  time     .....  285 

I  sometimes  hold  it  half  a  sin       .          .          .          .  15 

It  is  the  day  when  he  was  born        ....  263 

I  trust  I  have  not  wasted  breath             .          .          .  294 

I  vex  my  heart  with  fancies  dim      ....  97 

I  wage  not  any  feud  with  Death            .          .          .  1 80 

I  wTill  not  shut  me  from  my  kind     ....  266 

Lo,  as  a  dove  when  up  she  springs       .          .          .  32 

Love  is  and  was  my  Lord  and  King          .          .          .  307 

"  More  than  my  brothers  are  to  me  "             .          .  174 
My  love  has  talk'd  with  rocks  and  trees   .          .          .233 

My  own  dim  life  should  teach  me  this           .         .  79 


34° 


Now  fades  the  last  long  streak  of  snow     .          .  .     283 

Now,  sometimes  in  my  sorrow  shut      .          .  .            55 

O  days  and  hours,  your  work  is  this          .         .  .     287 

Oh,  wast  thou  with  me,  dearest,  then             .  .          298 

Oh  yet  we  trust  that  somehow  good          .          .  .121 

Old  Yew,  which  graspest  at  the  stones           .  .              9 

O  living  will  that  shalt  endure          .          .          .  .318 

One  writes,  that  "Other  friends  remain"     .  .             17 

On  that  last  night  before  we  went              .          .  .      250 

O  Sorrow,  cruel  fellowship            .          .          .  .             1 1 

O  Sorrow,  wilt  thou  live  with  me              .          .  -132 

O  thou  that  after  toil  and  storm    ....  77 

O  true  and  tried,  so  well  and  long    .          .          .  -321 

Peace;   come  away  :   the  song  of  woe              .  .          128 

Ring  out  wild  bells  to  the  wild  sky    ....     260 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again,  And  howlest  .          159 

Risest  thou  thus,  dim  dawn,  again,  So  loud        .  .      240 

Sad  Hesper  o'er  the  buried  sun     ....  296 

Sleep,  kinsman  thou  to  death  and  trance             .  .157 

"  So  careful  of  the  type?"  but  no          .          .  .          125 

So  many  worlds,  so  much  to  do                   .          .  .      162 


Still  onward  winds  the  dreary  way  .         .          .62 

Strong  Son  of  God,  immortal  Love  ...              i 

Sweet  after  showers,  ambrosial  air  ...      200 

Sweet  soul,  do  with  me  as  thou  wilt  .          .         .          145 

Take  wings  of  fancy,  and  ascend       .          .          .  .168 

Tears  of  the  widower,  when  he  sees     ...  34 

That  each,  who  seems  a  separate  whole   .          .  .      107 

That  which  we  dare  invoke  to  bless      .          .          .  302 

The  baby  new  to  earth  and  sky        .          .          .  .103 

The  churl  in  spirit,  up  or  down            .          .          .  273 
The  Danube  to  the  Severn  gave        ....       46 

The  lesser  griefs  that  may  be  said          ...  48 

The  love  that  rose  on  stronger  wings        .          .  .      311 

The  path  by  which  we  twain  did  go               .  53 

There  rolls  the  deep  where  grew  the  tree          .  .      300 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ        .          .  66 

The  time  draws  near  the  birth  of  Christ            .  .255 

The  wish,  that  of  the  living  whole        .          .          .  123 
This  holly  by  the  cottage-eave          ....      257 

This  truth  came  borne  with  bier  and  pall      .          .  189 

Thou  comest,  much  wept  for  :   such  a  breeze    .  .        42 

Tho'  if  an  eye  that 's  downward  cast              .          .  138 
Tho'  truths  in  manhood  darkly  join           ...        84 

Thy  converse  drew  us  with  delight       .          .          .  271 


342 


Thy  spirit  ere  our  fatal  loss     .....       94 

Thy  voice  is  on  the  rolling  air               .          .  .          316 

'T  is  held  that  sorrow  makes  us  wise         .  .          .      278 

'T  is  well ;   't  is  something  ;   we  may  stand    .  .            44 

To-night  the  winds  begin  to  rise      .          .  .                  38 

To  Sleep  I  give  my  powers  away           .          .  .             13 

Unwatch'd,  the  garden  bough  shall  sway  .          .      244 

Urania  speaks  with  darken'd  brow        ...  86 

We  leave  the  well-beloved  place       ....      247 

We  ranging  down  this  lower  track         .          .  .          105 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  sung             .          .  .                305 

What  hope  is  here  for  modern  rhyme             .  .          170 

What  words  are  these  have  fall'n  from  me  ?  .        40 

When  I  contemplate  all  alone       .          .          .  .          184 

When  in  the  down  I  sink  my  head            .  .          .151 

When  Lazarus  left  his  charnel-cave       .          .  .            73 

When  on  my  bed  the  moonlight  falls        .  .          .149 

When  rosy  plumelets  tuft  the  larch       .          .  .          216 

Who  loves  not  Knowledge  ?     Who  shall  rail  .          .      280 

Wild  bird,  whose  warble,  liquid  sweet           .  .          206 

Witch-elms  that  counterchange  the  floor  .          .     208 

With  such  compelling  cause  to  grieve             .  .            68 


343 


With  trembling  fingers  did  we  weave  ...  70 

With  weary  steps  I  loiter  on         ....  89 

Yet  if  some  voice  that  man  could  trust  .          .  .        81 

Yet  pity  for  a  horse  o'er-driven              .          .          .  140 

You  leave  us  :  you  will  see  the  Rhine  .         .  .     237 

You  say,  but  with  no  touch  of  scorn     .          .          .  230 

You  thought  my  heart  too  far  diseased                 .  147 


THE    END. 


Cambridge  :   Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


14  DAY  USE 

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29Sep'60GM 

MAY  ^°  1961 

.  __ 

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LD  21A-50m-4/60 
(A9562slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


